Mockingbird: Wastelands
by impoeia
Summary: With rumors of a deadly new weapon in Separatist hands, the Republic desperately seeks to neutralize not just the threat, but the scientist responsible for its creation. But when time and opportunities run short, it falls to Ro Arhen, Jedi investigator and fledgling commander, and her clone partner, to do what no one believes they can: save the day.
1. Backdrop

**Author's Note** : Many have doubted this sequel would ever see the light of day - including myself. It probably wouldn't have, if it hadn't been for the wonderful **laloga** \- awesome writer, wonderful beta and all around good nuna egg - who gave this harried scribbler her time, counsel and both patient ears. A million thanks and one for the bank.

 _Wastelands_ is part of my overall _Mockingbird_ -verse and second in _The Mockingbird Series_. For more information and preceding stories, please visit my profile page. Whether to read the prequels or not is a decision I leave to my dear readers - but it wouldn't hurt. For those of you already tuned to the Ro-and-Wren-Show, I thank you for your patience and wish a happy reading.

The _Star Wars_ franchise has and always will, belong to George Lucas and the authors and producers who've brought his characters to life and into our living rooms. No copyright infringements are intended on my part. My OCs, however, are my creative property.

Keep Calm and Read On! impoeia.

* * *

 **Chapter One: Backdrop**

 _"Life does not treat you fairly or unfairly, it merely is. It is up to each of us to be fair, or unfair."_

\- Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn to the Dark Jedi Xanatos

* * *

 _Nightbrother village, Dathomir, Outer Rim Territories_

 _39 BBY…._

Surely he'd been misnamed at birth.

It was not the first time this thought occurred to Feral, but it was certainly reinforced as Bellicose tore through his meager defenses to ram the end of his spear into Feral's stomach. Feral doubled over, gasping for air, desperately clutching his own spear. He thrust the weapon forward, hoping to drive Bellicose off, but the Nightbrother deflected Feral's attack on his bracers and drove his own weapon down in a double-handed grip. Feral's knees gave; he dropped and rolled, Bellicose's spear driving into the arena's hard ground, just where Feral's head had been moments ago.

The younger Zabrak scrambled to his feet, but Bellicose kicked him behind the knee. With a bellow of pain, Feral went to his hands and knees. Bellicose knocked the spear out of Feral's hand; the weapon went skittering towards the ring of watching Nightbrothers.

Feral tried to lunge after his weapon, but Bellicose blocked his way. He jabbed the blunt side of the spear into Feral's side, throwing the younger man onto his back. With Bellicose's shadow looming over him, Feral tried to scramble back. Bellicose raised his weapon, red light shimmering off the blade tip as if dipped in fresh blood.

" _No!_ " Savage broke from the crowd, coming at Bellicose with all the raw strength and fury of a rancor. Feral's older brother rammed Bellicose in the shoulder, knocking the other Nightbrother to the ground.

"That's enough." Savage moved to stand between his brother and Bellicose, one hand extended back to Feral.

Feral gratefully took the hand, allowing his brother to pull him to his feet, but his cheeks were a flaming gold with shame.

"This is Feral's match, Savage." Brother Viscus stood off to the side, hands folded behind his back as he watched the scene unfold. As so often, his face revealed nothing except a lasting disapproval for everyone and everything. "It is not your task to save your brother from his weakness."

Savage turned to stare at Viscus, while Feral hung his head, one arm wrapped around his aching ribs. All eyes were on the two brothers and Feral wished he had the courage to move aside and simply disappear in his brother's shadow. But that would have merely compounded his failure of this day - his life.

"I merely thought," Savage spoke slowly, the way he always did when saying something of import - words did not come as easily to his brother as strength, "that Bellicose would appreciate more of a challenge." His grey-green eyes slid to the Nightbrother; Savage's mouth hardened. "Like me."

They were the right words to say, but Feral winced nevertheless at their sound.

If possible, Viscus' frown deepened, but when he said nothing, Savage moved to pick up Feral's dropped spear.

Bellicose had meanwhile regained his feet, swiping absentmindedly at a small cut high on his chest. A result of his fall and not of a blow landed by him, Feral noted with chagrin.

Savage spun the spear lazily as he faced Bellicose, back still to his younger brother. "Leave this to me, Feral."

"Of course, brother." Feral backed away, his eyes moving between the two combatants. Bellicose was tall, sleek with muscle and he held the spear in an expert grip; his fight with Feral had left him barely winded. But Savage was even taller, his muscles even more defined and though he'd been battling all day, his body betrayed not the slightest tremor of fatigue. He extended his spear towards Bellicose in the customary salute and gesture was as if the spear were an extension of himself, the wood and metal as if grown from his flesh.

Back amongst the ring of watching Nightbrothers, Feral watched, part in pride and part in envy, as the two combatants began circling each other. Bellicose twisted his spear this way and that, showing off his prowess while simultaneously daring his opponent to attack first.

Savage just watched him, grey-green eyes fixed not on his opponent's weapon, but on Bellicose's body, where the true tells of his intent would be made clear.

Finally, Bellicose had had enough. The posturing ended and the Nightbrother abruptly attacked, bringing his spear down in a vicious overhand intended to cut deep into his opponent's shoulder. But Savage was no longer there.

His brother fell to the side, rolled, jabbing his spear between Bellicose's legs and twisting the long shaft.

Bellicose bellowed as he went down, shifting his weight to take the fall on his hands, while still keeping a grip on his spear.

Savage darted in with the unrelenting swiftness of a Kodashi viper. He drove the tip of the spear between Bellicose's shoulderblades.

Feral flinched back as the blood swept over Bellicose's orange skin. The blades of the weapons were blunted for practice, but the Nightbrothers did not pull their punches.

Brother Viscus had caught his reaction and frowned at Feral. Shamefaced at his weakness, Feral turned his attention back to the fight.

Despite his wound, Bellicose was getting back to his feet.

"Stay down," Savage warned.

Bellicose growled and thrust his spear at Savage.

Savage deflected the blow; the ring of metal on metal echoed across the Crucible. With a growl of his own, Savage lunged.

The fight was over in another four seconds.

Savage cut through Bellicose's defenses and slammed the butt of his spear into the Nightbrother's solar plexus. As Bellicose doubled over, the blunted edge of Savage's spear found his neck and _bit_.

Feral's stomach churned and despite Viscus' presence, the younger Nightbrother closed his eyes and turned his head away and didn't look again until the cheers echoed off the Crucible's steep walls.

Bellicose was slung between two elder Nightbrothers, limp and bleeding, his feet dragging over the stony ground as he was carried away - to be nursed back to health, or culled if his injuries proved too grievous.

That was the Nightbrothers' way.

Spear casually balanced over one wide shoulder, oblivious to the blood that coated the weapon's point and slowly dripped onto the Crucible floor, Savage watched them carry his erstwhile opponent away.

The reddish light slanting through the jagged peaks of the arena's walls was at the right angle to catch on his brother's golden skin, shining off the sweat that coated his bare torso even as it cast the tribal tattoos into deeper shadows. The contrast was, as always, striking.

"So young, and already so fierce."

Feral started at the sound of Viscus' voice; the village leader had come to stand next to the younger Nightbrother while Feral had been distracted by the sight of his older brother.

"Barely sixteen and already Savage has joined the ranks of our best warriors." In the crags of the village leader's face, Viscus' green eyes stood out like hard shards of emeralds - cutting and full of judgement. Feral never failed to be cowed under that hard stare. "He will take my place as village elder, no doubt," Viscus continued, as if unaware of Feral's discomfort. "Or be Chosen, when the Nightsisters come again."

Feral tracked his brother's progress as Savage left the arena to join them.

"It will be as you say, Brother Viscus."

How could it be anything else? Savage was as a Nightbrother should be: strong, proud, a formidable combatant and fierce warrior. But he was also protective, sheltering his younger brother against the cruelties of this life.

 _Because I am weak and in need of protection_. As thankful as he was towards Savage every time his brother stepped in front of him to take a blow that would have sent Feral to his knees, a small part of him - a corner of his soul that went mostly hidden from the world and even Feral himself - burned at every display of his brother's superiority.

 _So tall and straight and powerful. Why could I not have inherited some of the gifts Savage has in such bounty?_

"Yet not all Nightbrothers can aspire to such greatness."

It was as if Viscus had read his very mind and Feral shuddered a little.

"When the branch proves weak," the elder continued, "the greater tree must shake it off, to preserve its strength for the good of the whole."

 _In other words_ , Feral thought, _I should prepare myself to die quietly in some honorable fashion, before I can bring shame to the village before the Nightsisters._

Feral was saved, as always, by his brother.

Savage sauntered up to the two Nightbrothers, his eyes tracking warily from Viscus to Feral, despite the casual lean of his body. His bloody spear was still poised over one shoulder.

"Feral. Brother Viscus." Savage jerked his chin in acknowledgment to his brother, before bestowing a more formal greeting on the village leader.

"You fought well, Savage." Viscus turned towards the younger man, obviously pleased. "Every day you grow stronger. You make our village proud."

"I only wish to do right by my brothers." He turned his towards Feral as he said this, an obvious message to the elder Zabrak.

"Don't we all." Viscus eyed the two brothers, before placing a friendly hand on Savage's forearm. "But remember, Savage, that concern may not overshadow a Nightbrother's overall duty."

With that final piece of advice, Viscus took his leave. Feral was only too happy to see him go.

Savage _harrumphed_ , tapping the spear once against his shoulder, before tilting his head at his brother. Though only a year apart, Savage was a good handspan taller than Feral, who, even after a decade of strenuous training, remained slender as a reed.

"What did Brother Viscus have to say to you, Feral?"

Feral gave as casual a shrug as he could, beginning to gather up his training weapons as the Crucible emptied out and Domir began to set. "Many good things about your future, Savage, for the most part."

"I bet." Savage gave a snort, absently wiping at a thin cut trailing blood beneath one eye.

"He wants you to take his place as village leader, once his strength wanes."

Others might swell with importance at such news - village leader was the highest honor a Nightbrother could aspire to - but Savage responded with a casual roll of his broad shoulders.

"That day might come, but not tomorrow or the day after. Brother Viscus is strong, yet."

 _And deadly_ , Feral silently added. Not a fortnight past, the village leader had killed a fellow Nightbrother in hand-to-hand combat. "But it _will_ come," he said suddenly, fiercely, overcome by a swell of pride and conviction for his brother. "You are already the strongest in our age-group, Savage. When you challenge Viscus for leadership, he will fall."

A slight twitch of the lips was the only indication that Savage was pleased at the idea.

"Perhaps, brother. But that day will not be tomorrow," he said again.

 _But come it will_ , went unspoken between them.

 _So casual_. It never ceased to amaze Feral, the easy acceptance with which his brother approached life. Whether it was his prowess in battle, his natural strength or the destiny life had in store for him, Savage took it all in confident strides.

 _It is his birthright._

"Come, brother, let's go eat." Savage grabbed Feral's weapons for him, shouldering their weight along with his own as if it were nothing.

Feral followed obediently, the long shadow of his brother sheltering from the stabbing rays of Domir's last light.

"Do you think Bellicose will survive?" Savage finally asked, his eyes tracking along the bloodtrail the wounded Nightbrother had left behind.

Feral eyed his older brother indulgently. It was so like Savage, to attack with all he had, then worry about the consequences when nothing could be done about them. His brother, at least, had been aptly named.

"The healers will see to him and if he does, he will be stronger for the experience."

"And perhaps he will want to fight me again." A smile flitted across Savage's face. "That would be good. He is a worthy opponent."

 _He runs towards battle, while I do my best to hide from it._

Yes, Feral had definitely been misnamed at birth. If only a fraction of his brother's gifts could have been bestowed upon him…..

 _Then we could stand together in the arena, as brothers._ But as it was, Feral could only hope that he would not hold Savage back, even as he clung to the stronger tree, in fear of being cast off.

* * *

 _Jedi Temple, Coruscant, Core Worlds_

 _30 BBY..._

Mace Windu paused in his perusal of the Archives' great stacks.

It was late. Aside from the venerable Jocasta Nu and a handful of overly zealous Padawans, the halls of the Jedi Archives were deserted. Stopping before a collection of holobooks concerning the life and reproduction of the various crustaceans found on Dac and other ocean planets, the echo of his footsteps soon faded.

Those of his stalker died away a second later.

Still contemplating the various titles before him, hands casually clasped behind his back, Windu addressed the empty air. "After four days of continuous pursuit, don't you think it is time to end this game, youngling?"

A momentary, embarrassed hesitation, then an unruly mop of platinum blonde hair popped out from behind one of the towering bookshelves. Beneath messy bangs, a pair of large, teal eyes stared at the tall Jedi Master in astonishment and chagrin.

"You knew." Her tone sounded awed and slightly accusatory.

Windu inclined his head towards the youngling. "I'd be a poor excuse for a Jedi Master if I didn't, wouldn't I?"

The youngling blinked, cocking her head to the side as she regarded him gravely for a moment, then burst out into a spontaneous giggle.

The Force laughed with her; the Korun Jedi felt it as a tiny shiver that was no less bright for its lack of strength. His lips curved in response almost against his will. Obviously heartened by this gesture, the youngling left the sheltering shadows of the stacks; one tiny hand was left to rest on the ancient wooden bookshelf, as if the little girl were ready to pounce back behind it at an instant, like a tumble bunny diving down its burrow.

Face-to-face with his pursuer for the first time, Windu gave the girl a quick once-over with a practiced eye.

She was Human, though the teal shading of her eyes was unusual enough to suggest a possible Near-Human ancestor somewhere further back in her lineage. The unruly hair he'd noticed earlier hung all the way down to her waist, framing a slight body and oval-shaped face, with the chubby cheeks of youth. She was quite small. Coupled with the delicacy of her frame, guessing her age was difficult.

The overall impression was that of a bird he could have sheltered in one hand. There was the faintest impression of familiarity about the child - one Windu could not immediately identify.

Apropos of nothing, the child blurted out, "Your head's all shiny," and blushed to the roots of her hair - which was in desperate need of a comb.

"So it is," he responded, as grave as if he were addressing a fellow Council member. He bent to one knee before the youngling to even things out between them. Still, she had to crane her head back to look him in the eye.

"And you," he continued, "are surely missing from your bed, youngling."

The blush deepened and she dropped her gaze to her bare feet. "Sort of," she mumbled.

He couldn't help but cock an eyebrow. "So you are merely 'sort of' out of bed? How, pray, does that work?"

She peeked at him from beneath the tangle of bangs, and he felt her Force-touch brush against his mind, gauging his mood. He responded with a mild pulse of curiosity and little else - anything sharper, he sensed, and this little bird would take flight, only to resume this game of hers again, no doubt.

"I put pillows beneath my blanket before sneaking out," she finally admitted, then cocked her head to the side, eyes going up towards the ceiling. Windu felt her stretch out through the Force, a tiny wavering light straining to bridge the distance between the Archives and the younglings' dormitories. "Master Du Mahn doesn't know I'm gone," she concluded, then added with a grimace, "yet."

So she was one of Du Mahn's charges. That narrowed it down, somewhat.

"Master Du Mahn is wise in her ways. I know her to be an excellent caretaker and instructor. I have, for example, never heard of her being remiss in installing manners in her students."

"Oh." She looked at him, down at her wriggling toes, then back at Mace. "Right." She straightened and almost - _almost_ \- came to eye-level with him, before giving a proper little bow. "I'm Ro- _Roweena_ Arhen, if it pleases, Master Windu."

"Arhen." The name was as familiar as her face and suddenly, Windu placed her. "You're Padawan Garett Arhen's younger sister."

"Yes." At the mention of her brother, the Arhen girl's entire face lit up with pride and love. "And you brought us to the Temple." Sudden doubt crossed her mobile features. "Remember?"

 _Dantooine. Unnaturally heavy spring rains. The mudslides. A single hopper, buried beneath the mud and already filling. The sudden flare of life - of the Force - and two small children, brother and sister, clinging to each other - the last survivors._

"I remember." He _looked_ at her then, not with his eyes, but with the Force, seeking out the shatterpoints that crisscrossed within and about this child - and comparing what he found.

The lines were thin, spidery, but pulsing with color. The last time he'd seen Koth and his Padawan, Garett Arhen had been a bright flare in the Force, the shatterpoints of his Force-aura far-reaching, but steady. A good omen for a Jedi, who might one day help change the galaxy, turn it away from the darkness Yoda sensed on the horizon. But the sister was unsteady. He could feel the shatterpoints tremble beneath his gaze, ready to shift or shatter at a moment's notice. She reminded Windu of a of a broken viewscreen, flickering and shifting as if it couldn't decided on what channel to run.

Not the most promising of starts.

"Why have you been shadowing me this past week?" He cocked an expectant eyebrow at her, one hand dangling from his knee as he waited.

"Weeelll," she dragged the word out, toes curling and uncurling against the marble floor as she shot a quick look over her shoulder, as if hoping for backup. "I was….well….I was sorta…."

He waited patiently for the youngling to collect herself - they had all night, if need be.

" _IwannabeyourPadawanprettyprettyplease_."

He blinked. "One more time, youngling. And this time, try spacing your words."

She took a huge gulp of air, skinny chest pressing against her tunic, which hung untidily off of one shoulder. Was anything about this child organized?

"I want. To be. Your Padawan." Roweena spaced each word out carefully, as if tasting them. "Pretty please?"

He was taken aback, both by the boldness of the request and the confused maelstrom of hope and desperation the youngling was broadcasting.

"That is not how these things are usually done," Windu temporized. And it wasn't, a Master generally approached a potential Padawan after at least a token discussion with the Counsel, but Windu was also wondering if he was ready for another Padawan - and if it was wise for him to take a Learner right now.

 _There's a storm on the horizon; the Sith have returned._ Young Kenobi had seen - and battled - one.

 _And where there is one, there's another. Always two there are - Master Yoda said so himself._

Windu did not doubt that if there was to be another war between Sith and Jedi that he would be in the midst of the conflict. The question was, did he have a right to drag a Padawan into battle with him?

 _A Jedi is the bulwark against darkness,_ he reminded himself. Small this child might be, but she would grow into a member of the Order and raise her lightsaber against injustice and the dark side. She would need to learn to stand and fight either way.

"And why me, youngling?" he asked. He could think of several reasons - his status, his reputation, his prowess with the Force and lightsaber - but wanted to hear it from her.

The face she turned up at him was surprisingly solemn; the little round chin she struck out undoubtedly stubborn. "I'm ten," she declared, as if this were somehow shameful.

He wouldn't have guessed her more than eight. "Go on."

"The rest of my clan, the other Squalls, they're all advancing, taking classes with Master Drallig and Che. Three are already Padawans. I'm..." she licked her lips, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Master Sinube is still training me."

 _Ah._ The elderly Cosian Jedi primarily taught the basics of Force- and lightsaber usage to younglings between the ages of six and eight. For a child of ten to still be under his tutelage spoke volumes of Roweena's Force-abilities - and her likely future place within the Order.

 _The AgriCorps is not a shameful destination, merely a different part of the Order,_ he reminded himself. _They serve to the best of their abilities, like all of us._ Even if those abilities were more meager than those of the average Jedi.

She must have seen some of his thoughts on his face - or felt them in the Force. She bowed her head slightly, the mass of unruly hair slipping over her shoulders to fall down her skinny chest in a curtain.

"You brought me to the Temple, Master Windu," she said quietly. "If _you_ were my Master, no one could say I didn't belong in the Order - that I'm not a _real_ Jedi."

"A _real_ Jedi," he said, light censure in his voice, " _serves_ , youngling, and does not seek for glory."

"I don't _want_ glory," she burst out, teal eyes flashing. Then she blinked. "'Kay, maybe a little. But I really...I-I just want to be a Jedi."

 _Don't we all?_

"I can be a hard taskmaster," he warned.

Hope flared around her. "I can keep up," she declared stoutly. "And I'll be ever so good. You'll see." There was a vulnerability to her face, a softness that was tempered by determination and a fretful awareness of her own precarious position.

He'd seen that look before, on younglings who'd felt their thirteenth birthday loom large, with no potential Master in sight. Roweena knew she was heading to the AgriCorps, but was determined to fight for her place within the Order tooth and nail.

"Just…" She bit her lip, but held his gaze.

"Yes?"

"Just give me a chance to prove myself." The words were half-plea, half-whisper. She almost added "please"; Windu could see the word on the tip of her tongue, but the youngling determinately bit it back.

He should send her back to bed and spend the rest of the night meditating over his options, searching the Force - and perhaps Yoda - for advice. It was no light thing to take a Padawan, but a grave responsibility. That would be the prudent decision.

But there was something in the set of her shoulders, in the way her eyes tilted up at him, as if he were her last salvation, that strongly reminded him of his former Padawan, Kalinda, now two years a Knight. She too had stood on the brink of relegation to the AgriCorps, after losing her first Master and subsequent knee injury - and the Order would have lost a true Knight in the bargain.

"Very well, youngling." Windu inclined his head towards her, both in a nod of confirmation and solemn promise. "You will have your chance, however…"

Whatever sage advice he'd been about to give was lost in her sudden squeal of total delight. She leaped at him, thin arms wrapping around the Korun Jedi's neck in a fierce hug.

"Oh, thank you! Thank you, thank you, _thank you_."

He returned the hug, tentatively, mostly out of reflex, but also because he did not miss the desperation in the tightness of the child's embrace.

* * *

 _The next day..._

The dojos at the top of the Tower of First Knowledge weren't _anything_ like the ones i the Tranquility Spire, where Ro's classes were usually held and she couldn't help but feel slightly intimidated. Everything here was so _grand._

Bronzium statues lined the walls, reaching all the way to the second-story balcony; in their shadows, Ro felt like a gnatfly caught under the disapproving glower of a regal pride of rock-lions. The floors were wood, polished to such a high sheen that she could see a distorted reflection of herself in it. That alone had impressed her to such a degree, that she'd slipped her shoes and socks off before daring to tread on the dojo's pristine floor.

None of this was helping to settle the flewt swarm currently doing cartwheels in her belly.

There was so much riding on these next few minutes. Her whole future...

"You're early, youngling."

Ro yelped and dropped the training lightsaber; it clattered to the floor, making her wince.

Mace Windu, as tall and as imposing as the bronzium statues, strode into the dojo. He barely made a sound as he walked, she noted, fascinated, despite the fact that his feet were clad in sturdy boots.

The Korun Master waved a hand as he approached and her training lightsaber flew into his hand. Windu weighed the weapon for a moment, inspecting the hilt closely.

"From the Temple armory," he observed. "You've not yet had your Gathering, then."

"No, Master." But she hoped she would, and soon. Constructing your own lightsaber was the first step to becoming a Padawan - and another milestone between Ro and the AgriCorps. She hoped.

Windu nodded and handed the weapon back to her. "A lightsaber is a Jedi's life, youngling. You should take care to hold on to it more thoroughly."

He sounded so stern; Ro wondered if Master Windu ever smiled or laughed. She'd always wanted a Master who laughed and told jokes.

 _It doesn't matter so long as he_ is _my Master,_ she reminded herself.

Tentatively, she reached out to take her lightsaber back.

Master Du Mahn and Garett always complained that she talked too much, but under Windu's dark stare, all she could manage was a meek, "Yes, Master."

She felt so clumsy, tongue-tied. Should she have answered him with something sage from her classes? Too bad she couldn't recall anything more sage at the moment then, "Try not to cut your own head off."

Padawans weren't supposed to chatter, though. Padawans were supposed to listen and learn and since she was terrified of uttering the wrong peep and totally ruining the moment, Ro convulsively swallowed back every single word that came to mind.

The result, was a rather uncomfortable silence, where Jedi Master and Initiate merely stared at each other.

Finally, Windu said, "You will be fighting in bare feet?"

"Uhm." Ro looked down at her naked toes, then towards the corner where she'd left her shoes and socks. They seemed miles and miles away. "Yes?"

"Very well." The tall Korun pivoted on his heels, walked back several paces before turning to face her once more. His lightsaber was suddenly in his hand - Ro hadn't even seen him reach for the weapon. "Arm yourself, Initiate."

"Wh-what?" Her mouth was suddenly dry, but that was alright, because all the wetness seemed to have simply slid down to her palms, until she almost dropped her lightsaber a second time. She'd _surely_ heard wrong. "We….we're going to _fight_?" Her voice rose to a squeak.

He looked down the proud prow of his nose at her.

"Your skills with a lightsaber are part of the fundamentals that make a Jedi. You wish to be my Padawan? I'm giving you the chance to show me what you've learned."

"B-but I…." It hit her then, that she'd actually never considered just _what_ this chance she'd begged Windu for would entail, but a lightsaber duel with one of the most renowned Jedi in the Temple - second only to Master Yoda himself - had certainly _not_ been it.

Windu waited patiently and somehow that made her even more nervous. Ro took a step back, then another, on the verge of running.

The Jedi Master merely raised an eyebrow. "I'm waiting, youngling."

And suddenly, Ro was furious. "You're Mace Windu; I can't beat _you_!"

"In a fight? Undoubtedly. Simply by standing there? For a certainty." His lightsaber sprang to life, a beam of purple light that cut through the dojo.

Reflexively, Ro thumped the activation button to her own lightsaber. The blue blade looked tiny and inadequate when compared to the Jedi Master's. Both hands wrapped around the hilt, but as always, the grip felt awkward to Ro, as if her right hand wanted to do something other than what her left was doing.

Windu slid into a battle-stance, his movements a study in grace and precise. Master Sinube had always said that the lightsaber should be an extension of herself; watching Master Windu, Ro finally understood what he'd meant. The lightsaber in the Korun's hand seemed to be a living thing, sprouting out of the Jedi's palm and moving as nimbly as one of his fingers.

Ro swallowed. Windu hadn't done more than move into the opening stance of a lightsaber duel, and already she felt beaten.

 _I don't stand a chance._ Just like she never stood a chance when her clan-mates played Force-limmie, bouncing the ball effortlessly through the air, while she'd been left running breathlessly after it, or, more recently, simply delegated to the sidelines.

Ro's entire face felt like it was on fire. It was so _unfair._ If this was Windu's idea of giving her a chance to prove herself worthy of being his Padawan, he might as well have just said "no" and spared her this humiliation.

 _I'll lose no matter what._ She took a step forward. And another.

Windu watched her come. "Standard duel rules; three points decides the match. Understood?"

Her mouth felt like she'd taken a big bite out of Tatooine's Dune Sea, so Ro simply nodded.

"Very well. Begin." And just like that, he was _right in front of her._

Ro gasped and threw herself backwards, her lightsaber coming up in an instinctive block, but she might as well not have moved at all. Windu's lightsaber slid past her defenses as if they didn't exist, the tip barely grazing the edge of her sleeve. Then one of his big hands grabbed the edge of her robe, keeping Ro from falling flat on her butt. The Jedi Master gave her a slight shove and Ro stumbled forward. But she'd absorbed more from her lessons than she'd thought, because her body was already whirling around, lightsaber at the reader, before her mind had fully grasped what had happened.

"Your reflexes are good," Windu observed, "but you are unfocused. Stay in the moment."

 _Where I'm getting my butt handed to me with a big red ribbon._

She tried to attack. Ro went through the moves of Shii-Cho, Form I of lightsaber combat, as she'd done a hundred - a _million_ \- times under Master Sinube's critical eye. Her focus narrowed to the Marks of Contact, trying to get her lightsaber blade close enough to scare a hit.

 _Just one hit. Just one. Maybe that'll be enough. It_ has _to be enough. What more can he expect?_

It was like chasing points of light. Windu evaded each and every one of her attacks, not even raising his lightsaber in defense, but merely angling his body so her blade slid right past him. The Jedi Master moved with the liquidity of a cool mountain stream and she felt _nothing_ from him in the Force.

No boredom, or interest or even the bundled attention that lingered on Ro's tongue like a sting. Mace Windu was a pool of serenity that revealed nothing, only reflected herself back at her.

By the time he landed his second point on Ro, a small streak of char just on her right shoulder, seconds had passed. Ro was panting, swear darkening the hair at her temples and the nape of her neck, where she'd gathered it in a loose tail.

Windu's robes weren't even ruffled.

"Your technique is flawed, youngling. Giving yourself over to emotion will only hold you back."

Ro wiped the sweat off her brow, aware of the fact that he was deliberately giving her the time to catch her breath, to reset and try again.

"It's all I have," she answered hoarsely.

He didn't look as if he believed her.

And out of nowhere, like they usually did, a stray bit of music came to Ro. She couldn't place it, and didn't have to. What mattered was that it was sweet and smooth and her body began to sway in rhythm.

She was in the music now.

Ro spun; no standard lightsaber move, but a graceful pivot on the ball of one foot, her lightsaber close like a dancing partner. Windu moved to intercept her, but Ro this time, it was like he was moving in slow-motion. Ro could see the purple afterglow his saber left in the air as it came at her. She leaped.

The song was stronger now, more in her head than her ears, and somehow... _golden._ She snatched at it, even as her body bent in a backwards flip that sent brought her well above Windu's arc of attack.

It was like she'd stepped out of her body, yet Ro'd never been so aware of the air brushing against her bare skin, or the tickle of hair on her cheek, the rustle of her robes.

Something soft and light ghosted across her forehead, as if someone were trying to tickle her with a feather.

And Ro found she wanted to laugh, because this….. _this_ was joy and fulfilment and flight and….the _Force_!

And no sooner did she touch it, then it was gone again.

The golden glow vanished with the suddenness of a light switch being flipped and flight abruptly turned to fall.

Ro cried out as she lost her balance, still partially midair. In a panic, she waved her arms, but that only unbalanced her further. She came down wrong, her left foot barely touching the dojo's floor before it went _sideways_ beneath her weight.

The pain was blazing and Ro cried out a second time, more shrill than before. She barely managed to _not_ impale herself on her lightsaber by dropping the weapon and bracing what was left of the fall with her hands, as she'd been taught.

The dojo's floor was cool as it pressed against her forehead and smelled citrusy and piney all at once.

Tears stung Ro's eyes and she let them fall - as she'd fallen.

"Roweena," a huge shadow fell over her. "Are you-"

The concern in Master Windu's voice was too much.

Red-faced, burning from humiliation and pain, she screamed into the Master's face: "It's your fault!"

He froze, as if slapped.

"Your fault!" she repeated, hot tears scorching her face. It was just too much. Weeks of planning, of finding the best routes to sneak out of the younglings' dormitories, working up the courage to talk to the one person who could protect her from the fate - the shame - that had been looming large since she'd been eight years old and confronted with the immovable object of a _ball._

The hard, cold knot of jumbled feelings beneath her breastbone, growing for over two years, shattered all at once and poured out of Ro: the disenchantment, the frustration; the fear and the daily humiliation she'd been forced to swallow, so she could be a good Initiate - a good Jedi.

It tasted like ash.

"You'll never let me be a Jedi. Not you, or Master Sinube or Master _Yoda_. No one! You're _never_ giving me my chance. Never!"

"I believe we're done here." Master Windu's face might as well have been cast of alusteel; it was all hard planes and unforgiving angles. His tone was ice. "Remain where you are, Initiate. I'll call a Healer."

Ro's head dropped back to the floor, her body shaking from sobs. "All I could do was fail."

Windu paused in the act of rising, looking down at her. "I never required you to do otherwise."

She looked back up at him, startled by the words, but he was already on his way out of the dojo, back straight and rigid. He never looked back.

Ro curled up on herself then, hurt ankle pulled close to her body, and wept.

She felt small, alone, desperately wishing to be back in the song that had been hers for that one, glorious moment. But even that had failed her.

Worse, though, was the feeling that she'd failed the test - and now she wasn't even sure if that had ever meant the match.

* * *

 _Tipoca City, Kamino, Outer Rim Territories_

 _28 BBY…._

The armored elbow hit him just below the chin, snapping his head back violently. His bare feet slipped on the rain-wet duracrete and Alpha-20 went flying.

For a moment, the clone cadet had an unhindered view of the black sky above, with its roiling cloud cover highlighted by the sharp tines of lightning.

Then he broke through the surface of the ocean and the waves swallowed him.

Wrench hit the water _hard,_ the impact jarring his spine and forcing all the air from his lungs.

The waves closed in around him, as dark and cold as the sky.

Wrench had a final glimpse of the world above, merely a pinprick of light as a fork of lightning stretched out over the clouds before the saltwater flooded his nose and mouth and eyes.

He clamped his eyes shut and tried to blow the water out of his nose, but he only started choking, which drove more water down his throat.

All clones had been taught to swim, so Wrench kicked out with legs, arms stroking through the blackness - but he no longer knew which way was up or down.

 _Fear_ was spiky; a crackle in his veins and far, far colder than the oceans of Kamino.

Just as his lungs felt ready to burst, the synthrope around Wrench's waist was pulled taut. The cadet screamed as the rope cut through his bare flesh, unmindful of the water choking him, as he was janked back…. _up_!

Wrench's head popped out of the roiling waters.

The wind drove rain against his face with the force of PEP rounds, but Wrench didn't care. He heaved in great gulps of air, even as he coughed up the water he'd swallowed. His nose was clogged; his eyes burned; his vision was blurry. High above his head, the reversed bowl of Tipoca's underbelly stretched for miles and miles.

He had a second to orient himself before the next series of waves caught the cadet up again and swirled him about like a tooka cat's plaything.

The waves crashed against the pillars of the city and broke up, losing some of their monstrous momentum, but not enough for the young clone to swim against.

He was pulled under again, breathing water, then slammed against something unyielding. A clamp, like a giant fist, seized Wrench, squeezing his chest until he was certain his ribs shattered. The water pressure kept him pinned to that hard, durasteel _something_ …. squeezing…..squeezing….

His mind seemed to detach from his body, as life was squeezed out of him. And then the pressure shifted and that great fist turned into an open hand, slapping him to the side.

Wrench didn't have the breath left to scream again as his naked body slid against the ice-cold pillar, bits of exposed skin temporarily sticking to the freezing durasteel. His left arm was wrenched behind his back, almost up his shoulder as he was finally free of the pillar.

His arm was surely broken and the pain of it was the only warm spot in his entire body.

Wrench's body had almost given up the fight to breathe air again, when he reached the end of his tether and the snythrope snapped him back to the surface.

A moment's respite; a hastily indrawn breath and he was down in the wet darkness once more.

The next time the waves tossed him, they threw him right into the ladder reaching back to the platform; despite the numbness that had overtaken his body, there was simply no mistaking the press of rungs against his side. His _left_ side.

He was already being pushed past the ladder again.

There was no point in gritting his teeth - his mouth was already full of water - so he screamed with heartfelt pain as he forced his broken arm in-between the rungs. The ocean tugged at him, wrenching the arm further until the broken bits of bone ground against each other and threatened to pierce his skin.

But he held on, until he could twist about and grasp the first of the rungs with his other hand. His bare feet, just lumpy bits of ice, slipped off the durasteel and the undertow threatened to pull him back under. Wrench bared his teeth against the storm and refused to relinquish his hold.

With agonizing slowness, he fought his painful way up, out of the darkness of the ocean and into the shadow of Tipoca.

* * *

His palm slapped down on the platform, but Wrench barely felt the wet duracrete beneath his fingers. He was so cold that his hands and feet barely felt attached to the rest of his body. His hand slipped and he scrambled madly for a fingerhold, pushing his weight up and over the rim of the platform until he could dig in with his elbow. Numb as it was, his left arm hung uselessly at his side.

Wrench dragged his head and shoulders over the rim, shredding the skin of his elbow as he did so, but he barely noticed. The wind was as cold as the ocean and he was shivering so hard, his teeth clacked together.

An armored boot materialized out of the darkness, coming down on his hand.

The clone cadet shrieked in agony; writhing, his numb feet almost slipped off of the ladder, but the boot pinned him in place as relentlessly as the waves had against Tipoca's massive pillars.

Lightning cracked high overhead, once, twice, thrice, illuminating the scene in shuttering light.

Through the driving rain, Wrench could see himself reflected in the T-shaped visor of Jango Fett's helmet.

"Learned your lesson, ARC trooper?" The Mandalorian's voice, made tinny and crackling by the helmet's speakers, was pitched just above the howling of the wind. It was a cold voice, as cold as the storm and the oceans of Kamino, but Wrench heard the underlying growl - the fury.

The cadet twisted his head so as to stare into Fett's eyes through the visor, exposing as he did so the thin, angry red line of a puckered scar that ran from the right corner of his mouth all the way up into his cheek.

"Y-yes... _s-s-sir_." The words were hard to get out past the chattering of his teeth, but Wrench soldiered on, grimly determined. "Ne-next b-b-bomb in your quarters, will have bio-biometric s-s- _sensors_!"

"You think this is a _joke_?" The boot ground harder into his hand, crunching bone and cartilage. Grey edged itself into Wrench's vision, but he refused to cry out a second time and bit his tongue instead until his mouth filled with warm blood.

"You _want_ to die, you miserable little _chakaar_? Is that it?"

It was difficult to determine where Fett's armored outline ended and the night began - the saltwater in his eyes burned, crusting in his lashes and making his vision an uncertain thing - so Wrench bared his teeth at it all.

"You," he spat, spraying bits of blood onto the duracrete, " _first_!"

The pressure on his hand suddenly disappeared as the boot lifted.

Wrench felt himself slipping and tried to maneuver his broken arm around the ladder's fastenings.

" _This_ wasn't enough?" Fett snarled. "Do I have to beat sense into you by the _inch_?"

Wrench jerked his chin up to reply, and barely caught sight of the boot as it swung back down, hitting the clone cadet square in the breastbone. His fragile grip was shattered and Wrench was falling once more, away from the dubious safety of Tipoca and back towards the unforgiving waters.

* * *

The second armored figure was harder to see, the black _beskar'gam_ merging almost seamlessly with the shadows cast by the storm and the white blaze of Tipoca city. The strill at his side was little more than a grey shade, ducked low beneath the torrents of rain and grumbling its displeasure at being out in such weather.

Walon Vau didn't like it any better than his pet strill, but he was just as happy to leave behind the sterile confines of Tipoca for the dark chaos of the storm.

Besides, when the _Mand'alor_ called, the warriors rallied. No matter how foul the weather.

"Bit of extracurricular activity?" he asked, once he'd joined Fett at the edge of the platform.

Fett didn't answer, just kept staring down at the storm-tossed ocean.

Vau looked as well and could just make out a tiny figure struggling against the waves before being swallowed up again by the water.

"That the one?"

"He almost _killed_ Boba," Fett snarled in turn.

"'Almost' doesn't collect the bounty." It was a favorite saying amongst bounty hunters and one Vau knew Fett lived by. Vau and the rest of the _Cuy'val Dar_ might consider themselves Mandalorians first, bounty hunters second, but everyone knew it was the exact opposite for Fett. He might be their _Mand'alor_ , but it was an open secret that he took more pride in the title of greatest bounty hunter in the universe.

Still, it had been a brilliant little set-up, all things considered. Not every cadet - even an Alpha-ARC - would have come up with the idea of lining the interior of the doorway to Fett's private quarters with thermal det tape, rigging the door to blow as soon as it opened. A tidy booby-trap and effective; Boba would have been a blood-smear on the walls if that cleaning droid hadn't overtaken the boy on its rounds.

"You'd best watch him," Vau warned. "The little _shabuir's_ smart."

"He hates me."

As opposed to the rest of the Alphas, Vau thought, who were in fearful awe of their genetic template.

"Double the reason to keep an eye on him."

"Or give him to the aiwha-bait," Fett growled.

Vau turned his helmeted head to consider his leader. "Then do it and stop wasting your time. A soldier who can't be controlled has no place in an army."

Next to Vau, Lord Mirdalan sneezed in agreement.

Fett ignored them both. It wasn't easy to tell where a Mandalorian was looking at any given moment, given the HUD's wrap-around capabilities, but the _Mand'alor's_ visor was still fixated on small, pale figure fighting the black waters.

When the silence continued, Vau spoke again. "Or give him to Skirata. Kriff knows Kal enjoys coddling the crazy ones."

"No." The word cut across the storm like a thunderclap. "He's _mine_."

"Fett…"

"He almost killed Boba," Fett repeated.

Vau tried again. "It would be better-"

" _He almost killed Boba_!" The third repetition was a roar and the storm roared with him. "Jaster's legacy and mine and that waste of genes nearly _blew up my son_! No, Vau, Alpha-20 won't go anywhere. Not until we've finished this."

And that, Vau reflected, was that. Whatever kindness had motivated Fett to spare the _ad'ika_ flailing below the same fate as Alpha-19 all those months ago had disappeared in the fireball that had almost taken Boba's life. The cadet had crossed a line and there was no turning back now - for either of them.

Vau spared a moment's sympathy for the cadet hanging at the end of his synthrope, before saying, "And what do you want of me?"

For the first, Fett turned to face Vau. The rain pelted off of his armor in fat drops, collecting in the pits and scratches - Fett wore no good _beskar,_ but a less resilient and cheaper durasteel alloy.

"To help me," a gloved finger pointed down at the wild sea, "break him."

The poor _shabuir._ He'd have been better off reconditioned.

Rain ran down the edge of his _buy'ce_ as Vau inclined his head towards Fett's shadowed outline. "As _Mand'alor_ commands."

* * *

Wrench managed to catch hold of the synthrope, only for the thin cord to tear through his skin all the way down to the bone. He howled before the waters closed in around him once.

He gagged and heaved as his belly filled with saltwater, growing lightheaded as less and less oxygen flowed through his system. It was so cold, so terribly cold, that he'd even stopped shivering. Naked but for the synthrope tied around his waist, Wrench wanted nothing more than to float and let the darkness close in around him.

But as cold as he was, as tired as he was, there was a burning in the pit of his stomach, a fire just beneath his breastbone that grew with every crash of the waves, every bit of forked lightning and rolling thunder.

 _Asher,_ he thought, as he struggled against the ocean's pull.

And again, _Asher,_ as he broke the surface for a hasty gulp of air.

The lightning flared and in its afterglow he saw Jango Fett's face - the face _he_ and every other clone would one day grow into and the fires grew and grew until Wrench felt himself burn inside, despite the freezing temperatures outside.

It should have been Wrench the Kaminoans had taken. It should have been Fett that had died.

But it had been Alpha-19 - Asher.

Hate kept him warm. Hate kept him alive. Wrench screamed his brother's name into the storm.


	2. Shadowplay

**Author's Note:** Some of the characters, events and places in this story are taken directly from _Star Wars_ canon. Due to the divergent storylines of novels, movies, comics and series, defining "canon" has been a bit difficult. Add to that a fanfiction writer who bends Lucas' 'verse to her whim, and the confusion is complete. Discrepancies are likely to appear, be warned.

The quote for this chapter is inspired by _Shadows_ , an amazing story written by the equally amazing **TheLightIsMine** , who has given me kind permission to use her works as a source of inspiration. Without her, I'd no doubt have made a botch of our favorite _RepCom_ characters.

* * *

 **Chapter Two:** **Shadowplay**

 _"We're dead men; dar'manda; shadows in the night. Everything about us is a lie - except for the knife in your back."_

\- Intelligence Officer Lieutenant N-6 ("Kom'rk")

* * *

 _Garqi, Outer Rim Territories_

 _21 BBY..._

Social discrepancies were unavoidable in any society and as an interested observer, Karka Tr'ansom never failed to be fascinated.

There was a certain manic schizophrenia to most civilized worlds, where the politicians praised equality and the pacifists promoted peace from atop their ivory soap boxes. And he couldn't deny that the glittering utopia they sold was tempting, and up close, downright seductive. But take a few steps back - and down - and all of a sudden, words were no longer cheap; "peace" was for those who could afford the highest walls, the best guns and the most men to aim them. As for equality….

You could position the fool with the scholar on the same playing field; the beggar next to the king and have the craven fight side-by-side with the warrior, all nice, tidy and at eye-level. But when you took those few crucial steps back and looked at the board the politicians and pacifists had set up and you quickly realized that despite being on the same playing field, none of the pieces were equal. Position determined value and that was a dangerously shifting bed of sand to stand on. The king might have the power to point a well-bred finger and order someone's head to be chopped off, but have the peasant stumble upon the right nugget of information - the right scandal, outrage or deceit - and his value would rise higher than the sum total of any treasury in the galaxy's vast holdings. The scholar could labor all his life and scrape together the secrets of life and death, but even a fool could manage to steal a man's secrets, should that man prove to be too trusting in the security of his own position. And though brave and true a warrior might be, he could still be felled by a quick knife to the back, if he was trusting enough to believe his opponent would fight as fair as he, too bound up in honor to remember that from the back was the coward's favorite means of confrontation.

There was no equality on the playing field, because power tended to shift and there could be no peace, because power - political, financial, familial, etc - would not disappear into thin air. Jedi might preach that power was not the force that ruled the universe and accounted for value, but then again, they were the ones who commanded more power with a wave of their hand than most would ever taste in their entire life.

The only way to stay atop and come out whole, ahead of the game, was to avoid being put on that proverbial playing field; not be a piece, but one of the players.

This was neither a new nor revolutionary concept, however, and Tr'ansom had discovered early in life that the sidelines were crowded with those who wanted to direct, without getting caught up in the ensuing waves. The jockeying for position there was almost worse than on the board and the results far more bloody, the participants crueler - colder.

So be a piece. Join in the game and participate in the madness, but if you wanted to last and remain moderately clean, keep to the shadows; those undefined, murky waters between the board and the players.

Plenty of frist sharks infesting those waters, of course, but they tended to be of a wily breed, who knew to keep to themselves and avoid attention while they saw to their business - which meant keeping the blood trail to a minimum. The reckless and the brash did not tend to survive long on the border, much to the good of all.

Karka Tr'ansom was a frist shark; and it was time to move in the game.

* * *

 _Republic_ Venator _-class Star Destroyer_ Preserver

Lying on his bunk, back braced against the wall, ankles crossed, Karka Tr'ansom observed as the troopers prepared to die.

 _"...ive miks before arrival…."_

 _"Turret prep completed, sir."_

 _"Lockdown on all emergency syst…."_

His ears swiveled to catch every stray word. He was pleased with the resonance; he'd been worried the bulkheads of the ship might create unwanted echoes, but the implants were compensating well. He even caught the minutia difference in cadence and accents in the clones' speech patterns.

Outside his small cabin, troopers were rushing to their posts as the ship-wide comm kept repeating: " _Safeguard, safeguard, safeguard. All hands to action stations._ "

Tr'ansom had tuned _that_ annoying voice out from the start, to spare his enhanced hearing, but he kept his attention on the troopers, studying their movements through the closed cabin door and walls.

In his vision, the clones were skeletons in motion, covered in ghostly flesh and armor that flickered in and out of existence, depending on his focus.

 _Dead men walking, indeed._

 _Penetrator_ mode was likely to give him a headache after an hour of observation. Tr'ansom briefly closed his eyes, tripped the mental switch and focused once more on the corridors outside his cabin. This time, the troopers rushing past were burning spots of red, orange and yellow; the surrounding bulkheads a deep, cool blue. The thermal setting was definitely easier on his nerves, though details were less defined.

Everything was a trade-off.

It was too bright aboard the ship to try his night-vision, but Tr'ansom was pleased all the same. The implants had been well worth the credits. That might even serve to appease Nyir; his wife had been opposed to the implants from the start, but she was a pragmatic at heart. She would make her peace with whatever instruments helped him on the job.

Which reminded him….

Eyes still fixed on the scene outside the cabin, one of Tr'ansom's hands slipped off his stomach where he'd folded them to pat the front of his coveralls. They were non-descript, all-purpose grey coveralls; the kind worn around the galaxy for various services. Durable, easy to clean and, in Tr'ansom's case, filled with hidden pockets.

Pockets; a spy's most useful tool, aside from his wits. At least, according to Tr'ansom's sire.

His hand found the vague outline of the comlink in the folds of the coveral. He'd already sent his letter to his clan's mainframe, back on Bothawui, with instructions for decryption in the case of his demise. His father would see that it was passed on to Nyir and Eelo, though at five, it was doubtful his son would understand half the things Tr'ansom had written down for him. But it paid to be prepared for all eventualities - another of his sire's lessons

How many such letters had he written already? Tr'ansom composed one before every mission and there'd been _many_ missions so far. Each was a testament of his skills - a notch below his belt, as Humans so quaintly put it - but the thought of all the hours combined which he'd put into the careful composition of every farewell letter to his wife and son made him weary. It always did. Perhaps it was time for a little vacation; take Nyir on that pleasure cruise of the Kaliida nebula, like she'd been asking him to for the last three years. Or maybe Spira; Eelo would love the beaches of the island resorts and Nyir could be pampered while he lazed beneath the sun.

 _After this mission,_ he promised himself, as he'd done so many times before. Like the letters, it was a well-established pre-mission ritual.

The intercom suddenly cut off, the tinny voice replaced by a deep, persisting claxon.

Torn from his revery, Tr'ansom fixed his attention once more on the activity outside his cabin, gaze sharp and ears pricked. Where the troopers had hurried before, they were now in a dead-on sprint, racing towards their stations. The cruiser was about to drop out of hyperspace.

Tr'ansom took a deep breath, banishing all thoughts of Nyir and Eelo and slid off the bunk.

It was time.

He did not join the flow of bodies in the corridor, but kept to the wall, out of the way of the clones. The noise of the claxon was loud enough that he had to shut off the audio-implants, pressing his sensitive ears against his skull.

But his eyes were everywhere, saw every thing: the tense lines of the troopers' shoulders; their rapidly beating hearts; the clashing red and blues as adrenaline battled against fear.

All the controlled chaos of a battle about to commence.

Tr'ansom glanced upwards, through deck plates and bulkheads to the _Preserver's_ lofty heights, where the Jedi commanded and stood firm against the surrounding activity.

* * *

Preserver's _bridge_

Was it better to let the kyren swarm, or have the nexu lead the charge?

Jedi General Pong Krell had about a minute to decide.

"General Krell," the comm technician turned slightly in his chair to look at the Jedi, one hand curled over the mic pressed against his lips, "all squads accounted for and ready for deployment, at your command."

No, not _his_ command. If that were the case, Pong Krell wouldn't have made this stab at the Separatists' territory with such a paltry force. Three Star Destroyers could hardly be expected to take, let alone _hold,_ a planet, especially when Separatist reinforcement were closer at hand than the Republic's. This excursion was on the _Chancellor's_ orders, with the High Council's backing and he was expected to pull a victory out of thin air. Because he _always_ did.

Back straight, trunk-like legs planted firmly, the Besalisk Jedi had two arms crossed over his massive chest, the other two clasped behind his back as he glowered at his bridge crew. The beauty of hyperspace was lost on him; he had a campaign to win.

 _Piss on a forest fire,_ he thought. Should they manage to breach Garqi's planetary defenses, they might hold the planet for a week or more, but without immediate reinforcements, the Seps would roust them mercilessly.

 _And where would those reinforcements come from?_ It was no secret that the GAR was stretched thin, covering too many theaters of war; they had too few clone troopers and even fewer Jedi. _And growing scarcer by the hour._

 _That_ decided him.

"Thirty seconds to realspace, General."

"Inform the _Justice_ and _Reliant_ they are to spearhead the attack," Krell snapped at the nearest comm officer. He didn't really care which, so long as his orders were followed. "Helm," his head jerked in the direction of the navigation station, "keep the _Preserver_ back. We will supply covering fire for the outbound gunships, but do not engage."

He would allow the clone troopers to swarm any enemy fighters, while waiting for the right moment to pounce for himself.

"Coming out of hyperspace," helm announced, "... _now_."

The klaxon sounded a second before the stars slid back into their cold focus. True to expectation, the planet's defensive fleet was already in place. But it was a _much_ larger fleet than Intel had led on.

Krell's fleshy lips pulled taut, the robust wattle at his throat quivered ever so slightly, and that was all.

The Separatists ships, six where there'd only supposed to have been two, were already moving towards Krell's small fleet when the _Justice_ and _Reliant_ shot past, banks of turbo lasers already going strong. Their wedge-shaped hulls closed on each other, effectively blocking the _Preserver_ from any incoming fire.

And the battle was on.

The bridge burst into activity around Krell, clones shouting updates to one another, officers filtering orders down the ranks. _Reliant's_ shields began to flicker as the ship came under heavy enemy attack, besieged on two fronts by Separatist frigates. Fire briefly bloomed before being extinguished by the vacuum of space. The _Justice_ made as if to come to its sister ship's defence, but the rest of the Sep fleet blocked its advance.

Through the organized chaos of battle, Krell addressed a shadowed corner. "You'd best make your way to the hangars."

Karka Tr'ansom gave a short bow of acknowledgement, shaggy fur rippling beneath his grey, non-descript coveralls. "My thanks for the conveyance, General. And, how do you Jedi say?" The Bothan had a reedy, almost whistling voice to him. "May the Force be with you."

Krell's lips peeled back, but he didn't spare Tr'ansom a second glance. The Bothan slipped away from the bridge, wholly ignored by the busy crew.

Outside, _Justice_ and _Reliance_ had opened their own hangar bays, and swarms of larties dashed out, jerking wildly as they tried to evade the storm of blaster fire, heading towards the elusive purple marble of Garqi. And despite their starfighter escort, a good number of the gunships were turned to slag, even as Krell watched.

Analysts had estimated he'd lose more than a third of his larties before planetfall. Krell upped the estimated closer to half.

It didn't matter. Victory today would not come in the form of freeing a world from Separatist control. Later, perhaps, when he had the reinforcements Fleet HQ kept promising him, but not now. Krell's mission was another.

"Sir." The gunnery sergeant was half out of his seat, one eye glued to his monitor even as he gave a show of respectful eye-contact with a superior officer. " _Reliant_ lost half of its port side turbo laser. We should engage and-"

"Arm the turbo lasers." His aquatic ancestors had been sensitive to vibrations, and he could feel the rattle of _Preserver's_ main hangar doors sliding open in the tips of his whiskers and the soles of his feet. "Helm, maneuver us closer to the planet, but remain behind _Justice_ and _Reliant's_ shadow." Krell turned back to the banks of targeting arrays and the clones stationed there.

"Prepare to open full fire on these coordinates, on my command."

The expectancy on the gunnery sergeant's face died as Krell rattled off the coordinates he'd memorized from his earlier briefing.

"General," he put in tentatively, "the _Reliant_ -"

"-has its orders," Krell snarled, turning the full force of his presence and massive body on the trooper. "As do you. Now follow them, or I will find myself a replacement who can."

The trooper shrank back and meekly reseated himself. None of his fellows dared glance at him.

Sneering, Krell returned his attention to the battle outside. _Preserver_ was veering to the right - at least the helm did as he was told - and Krell got a good look at the _Reliant._ The earlier blossoms of fire he'd observed had grown to an inferno, eating away at most of the Star Destroyer's port side. A lucky shot from a Sep had, most likely, perforated one of the tibanna gas lines. And still, _Reliant_ pressed forward, into the jaws of the enemy.

His homeworld was a watery, frozen waste with a deep ocean that was as black as space beneath the drifting glaciers. Where once it had been clear and blue as Naboo's lakes, the Force had grown ever more to resemble that bottomless, pitiless Ojom ocean. And Krell felt it deepen and darken with every passing day; even now, as the _Reliant_ drove, with all thrusters burning, to its inevitable doom.

"General Krell," came the announcement from the helm, "we've reached our position."

Krell narrowed his eyes at the world below him. "Fire."

And then there was light.

* * *

 _Republic gunship, inbound for Garqi_

Sergeant Ramjet didn't like it, but Blurr figured the order must have come from on high, which meant there was nothing anyone could really do about it. It wasn't in the job description for a trooper to wonder about the orders he's given anyways. Just follow through with what you're told and hope whoever's in charge has the right overview.

Blurr hadn't been privy to any orders aside from shifting his backside into the larty soon as the alarms had gone off and the Star Destroyers had dropped out of hyperspace. As a lowly private, the war was limited to what you could see in your HUD. So when he jumped into the gunship's crew bay and spotted the lone figure already strapped into the jump seat, he and the rest of the squad took their cue from the sergeant and went about their business without comment.

By the time they hit atmo, Blurr was too preoccupied to give the mystery passenger much thought.

" _Kripes._ "

The LZ was hot alright. Blurr got slammed into Check and Tryout as the larty bucked, rattling his teeth. The boom of the cannons rolled through the crew bay despite the closed blast doors and Blurr thought he saw something red and sinister through the slits.

"Thought you said those clankers couldn't aim worth _poodoo_." Check shoved Blurr away and the private had to grasp for the nearest handhold. Beneath his boots, the deck plates shifted and rolled.

 _This is what being drunk must feel like._

"Cut the chatter." The sergeant's voice was a growl over the squad's comm-channel. "Keep your blasters close and your heads closer, ladies, touchdown in ten."

Like the rest of his squad, Blurr did a quick double-check of his Deece. Power cell full; fresh ammo pack in the slot; all systems check green.

The darkness of the crew bay was replaced by the red ready-lights and for a moment, they were all bloody ghosts.

"Good luck out there." The pilot was nothing but a disembodied voice in his ears. "Try not to get crisped."

The larty banked, jerking the troopers backwards, but this time they were prepared; none of Ramjet's men were shinies.

A light above the blast doors pulsed crimson; Blurr couldn't take his eyes off of it.

"Covering fire," the pilot said, as tense as the rest of them. " _Now_!"

He could feel the jerk of the larty's blaster cannons even as the blast doors slid aside, opening up their small world to a scene of total chaos.

Blurr was out just behind Check, ahead of Tryout and all three of them were shooting long before their boots touched dirtside.

" _Move! Move! Move!_ " Sergeant Ramjet yelled over the comms. The larty was already starting to lift, though not all the troopers had cleared the threshold and had to resort to jumping from the bay. The two gunners in the bubble turrets were going all out, but the LZ was crowded and this close to the ground, they had to be careful not to blast brothers as well as droids.

It had been a plaza, once; Blurr had time to note as much, to feel his boots jarr against flagstones and catch sight of colorful sign advertising all the things civvies couldn't seem to do without and which totally escaped his comprehension.

He only got a second's glimpse worth of a world he would never be a part of before his focus narrowed to nothing but Tryout's white-armored back ahead of him and the line of battle droids closing in.

The squad spread out, merging into the wave of attacking clone troopers. Blurr dodged several shots of red plasma, shouldered Tryout out of the way of a second volley and took aim. It didn't matter much what direction he shot in - the clankers were everywhere.

It wasn't until someone actually _ran into him_ that Blurr saw the civvies. He felt bodies collide, automatically swung his Deece around even as he regained his balance...and sighted down on the pale face of an elderly Human, half on his knees from their collision.

"Please…." The man's croaky plea would have been lost in the sounds of battle, except that he and Blurr were tangled in each other's legs. Blurr saw the dark T-slit of his visor reflected in the whites of the old man's eyes.

And then he heard the screaming. Blurr's head jerked up and now that he was at a standstill, no longer part of the white wave crashing down on Garqi, he saw the bits of color darting between plastoid and tan durasteel - more civvies, caught between the two fronts.

Seps, all of them.

His blaster was still pointing at the old man's face; the fool hadn't moved, too terrified by the trooper or the cannons.

"Get ou-" Fire exploded down his side.

Blurr's head was jerked to the left, hard enough he thought his vertebra had cracked.

Dimly, he could hear the old man shrieking, felt his legs gets torn out from under him as the civvy finally struggled free and ran.

And then he was on the ground.

Blurr blinked. He had no memory of falling, or of hitting the plaza's flagstones. A fall like that should have hurt, even with armor, right? But there was no pain, yet the view of his HUD was dominated by polished, yellow-orange stones and white plastoid boots running past.

Boots, not backs. He'd lost sight of Check and Tryout and the rest of his squad.

The gauntlet in his line of sight was blackened, the plastoid blistered. He tried moving the fingers, to see if they actually did belong to him, but couldn't.

It didn't hurt, though, which was wrong. Blurr'd been shot before, so the hand, his body, it should hurt. Instead of pain, however, there was nothing.

A dry click in his throat was his attempt to swallow. The spastic kick of his feet the final attempt of his body to get back up, rejoin the fight and find his squad.

He still couldn't seem to curl the fingers of his hand, though he was starting to forget why that was so important.

Outside his helmet, there were screams and orders, blaster fire and the whirring of larties. But inside the bucket, there was silence, the kind of which Blurr had never heard of before; not in the darkness of the barracks nor even in the dimmest memories of Kamino, where everything had been awash in a faint blue tinge and there'd been bright coldness instead of blanketing dark.

 _I should call for a medic,_ he thought dimly. _I think I was hit, but it doesn't hurt._

He was gone before the thought had fully crystallized, the blank slit of the T-visor still fixed on the charred remains of his hand. In its polished surface, booted and durasteel feet marched past, blue and red lights whizzing overhead. And, briefly, a blurred vision of a shadow, manifesting to the long face of a Bothan. The Bothan's reflection seemed to turn, to regard itself in the dead trooper's visor for a few seconds, before vanishing off the rim of the T-visor, carried forth by the tides of battle.

* * *

 _Pesktda city_

Someone pushed Nan, hard, and she had just enough breath left in her for a little cry of surprise before she went down, skimming her knees and palms on the ferrocrete.

Heat washed over, pressing her down into the searing 'crete, the roar swallowing up her cries of pain and terror. She shut her eyes, tight as she could, wondering if this was how a nuna in the gasser felt. The heat backed into her shredded palms, her cheeks and the backs of her legs….

When she opened her eyes again, the world was blurred by her tears. She blinked and they rolled down her face, burning their way across her skin. She'd never felt so hot.

Nan twisted her head, prying her cheek off of the ferrocrete, too dazed to care about the bits of skin tearing off as she did so. The ferrocrete beneath her felt odd, she thought, too soft and actually giving a little under her weight.

She stared, dumbstruck, as she moved one hand to find she'd left a barely visible imprint in the pedwalk's surface. Dazed and bleeding from a cut in her scalp, Nan swung her head about this way and that, trying to get her bearings.

Something slammed into her back. Nan screamed as her face was pressed into the hot ferrocrete, her nose squashed as the breath was knocked out of her. Desperately, unthinkingly, she tried to push up, to get back on her feet and get air, when pain exploded in her hand, then her thigh. Another something - another _someone_ \- tripped over her, the tips of his - or hers? - shoes digging into her side. More tears, this time from pain and a growing fear.

Nan saw them now, the fleeing crowds; her neighbors, the people she shopped with, the vendors and the street entertainers. They were all running, mouths opened wide and working in soundless terror - trampling _her._

Everything, her hair, her face, her legs and back and stomach, was kicked and stamped on by the crowds wild flight. She screamed, for help or because of the pain or out of sheer, mindless terror, she couldn't tell, but she knew she had to get up and yet every time she tried, a new pair of feet would kick at her, over her and she'd go back down….down….beneath the masses.

Her chin snapped against her collarbone as strong fingers clamped around her elbow and _pulled._

Nan cried out as she was forcibly separated from the overheated ferrocrete, the material of her pants and blouse tearing and sticking in places to the pedwalk. She staggered, almost lost her balance again as someone slammed into her. She would have careened to the side and no doubt fallen once more, had those fingers not jerked her forward, back on her feet.

"Wh-wait."

There was a high-pitched ringing in her ears. In a daze, Nan looked around, clouds of brown hair flying about her face as she tried to get her bearings. It was as if the movement had rattled something back into place inside her skull.

The ringing abruptly climbed in volume, deepened in pitch and now she recognized the wailing of the air-raid sirens.

 _Air. Raid. Sirens._ The words danced before her eyes.

"S-sirens," she stuttered. "We're….we're under…."

"...attack."

Her head snapped towards the voice, penetrating despite its reedy quality. Briefly, she caught sight of her rescuer, a long, furry face topped with gently curved ears.

"Keep running," he said and Nan was pushed again, even harder than before. She windmilled her arms wildly, terrified of another fall, but one outstretched hand caught in the shoulder of another woman.

The woman turned, looked as if she were about to strike Nan, then actually grabbed her wrist and pulled the younger woman along behind her.

Nan stumbled, too dazed to think about where they were going, simply letting herself get pulled along. With her hearing restored, she could hear the screams now, and the boom of the cannons, louder than any thunderstorm she'd ever heard.

It was too much to take in, the scenes blurred together before her eyes, but her legs kept moving until brightness caught at the corner of her eye. Nan, still running behind the other woman, jerked her head about to see.

Far above, past the thickening clouds of smoke, pinpricks of light moved over the blue sky, barely recognizable as needles and wedge-shaped ships. More light, beams of light, bluer even than the sky, lanced down from one of those ledges.

Nan's eyes widened in shock, her mouth fell open.

The laser barrage hit the city before she could think to scream, tearing _through_ houses, down the streets and across the pedwalks. Flame erupted on all sides, speeders were thrown aside, burning, exploding, while the blue plasma chewed long furrows through her home, leaving nothing behind but red-hot, glowing slag.

The plasma beams raced after crowds, tore at its edges. She was drowning in screams.

Then Nan really did fall; this time down a flight of stairs. Her body hit the sharp edges, bounced off the steps and finally rolled onto the ground - so blessedly cool - just as the doors to the underground shelter - the shelter she and a thousand others had been heading to all along - slammed shut. Shutting out the battle, the barrage from the ground and sky - and all the others who'd been too slow.

As she listened to the pounding above and at the sealed durasteel doors, to the pounding of her own heart and bruised body, Nan briefly wondered if her savior had been amongst those lucky enough to make it to one of the shelters. Then, she finally slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

 _Aboard the_ Preserver

" _Reliant's_ going down!"

"I can see that," snapped Krell. But he turned his back on the burning derelict of the Star Destroyer. "Status," he barked at the Peewo - the principal weapons officers.

"All targets destroyed, General. Taking aim at the Sep ground defenses-"

"Belay that." Krell swung back to the viewport. _Reliant_ was breaking up, its great hull almost sheared in two, yet the vulture droids kept swarming, picking at the downed cruiser with the fervor of their namesakes. Krell's lips peeled back in a snarl.

If he'd been given the ships, the troopers, the _orders…._

"Call back our forces. Prepare to jump to hyperspace in ten."

"S-sir?" The Peewo wasn't the only one of his officers to stare at him in incomprehension.

"General," the deck officer stepped forward, gloved hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "That isn't sufficient time for the ground-based troops to return to the ships. We have to hold our position for at least another…"

"Do you think me ignorant, clone?" Krell rounded on the startled trooper, casting his long shadow over the smaller Human. Instinctively, the trooper leaned backwards, but otherwise held his ground. "I am well aware of this fact. Now do as you are ordered." _That's what the Republic bought you for, after all._

And they should have bought more, while they were at it. How could someone - Sifo-Dyas, supposedly - have had the foresight to purchase an army for a war no one had seen coming, yet failed to procure sufficient troops to secure victory?

The _Preserver_ shook. Krell wheeled around; four of the Sep cruisers were heading their way, firing from all cannons, while the other two were still engaged with the _Justice._ None of the Sep ships had escaped battle damage, but they still had numbers on their side.

"Return fire!" Krell bellowed.

 _Preserver_ answered the enemy volley with its own barrage, but the blue rain was almost lost in the hail of red. Beyond the viewport, the stars were almost blended out of existence by the rapid exchange of plasma fire between the cruisers, but Krell saw a hundred tiny pinpricks of light heading towards them - what remained of the larties and their starfighter escorts, returning to the two surviving Destroyers. Even now, the _Justice_ was trying to intercept them, putting its bulk between the Separatist and the more defenseless larties….

...And leaving the _Preserver_ without its shield.

"Blast them," Krell growled. Well, if they wanted to play hero, then so be it. Though the maturation chambers of Kamino worked slowly, they still churned out clones faster than the Order produced Jedi. Krell'd accomplished his mission - the spy was delivered and the target locations destroyed; the Chancellor had his victory. Now it was time to preserve the Republic's dwindling assets.

"Turn us around. Prepare the hyperspace drive."

"Copy that."

"Engines on standby."

The ship shuddered again; the shields' energy fluctuated under the barrage of blaster fire, sending ripples like heat lightning across the viewport. Slowly, ponderously, the _Preserver_ began to turn its back on the fight.

"Sir." Despite the growing frenzy of activity on the ship, the deck officer hadn't budged. "Our men-"

Krell's lower pair of arms closed around the hilts of his lightsabers. "If you are so concerned for the clones left behind, Captain, you are free to take a starfighter and join them."

The officer remained firm for another moment or two….then lowered his eyes. "General."

Krell dismissed the trooper, turning his attention back to the receding battle. The _Justice_ was still engaging the enemy fleet and taking heavy damage as a result. Surrounded by vultures, the Star Destroyer resembled a wounded bantha put upon by a pack of anooba. But the majority of the pack was still on _his_ heels.

"Fire the conc missiles." Krell's voice cut through the chatter of orders and damage reports. The weapons officer jumped to obey. _Justice_ tore into one of its attackers and the Sep cruiser burst into brilliant flame. Another of the enemy's frigates, this one steadily chewing away at _Preserver's_ flank, sheared sharply to the left as several of the concussion missiles tore into its port.

And in-between the battling leviathans was the trickling stream of starfighters and larties, still fighting to get back to their home hangars. The space outside of Garqi was dotted with tiny blooms of fire - the only light in the growing darkness of the Force.

"Contact the _Justice,_ " Krell informed the bridge, trusting his orders would be obeyed without directly needing to address the pertinent clone. "They are to hold off the enemy until _Preserver_ has cleared the system. Shut our hangar bays!" he added, when a glance at a control board showed that hadn't happened already.

This time no one, not even the deck officer, argued.

Plasma licking at its sides and heels, _Preserver_ continued to turn, its aft cannons still firing even as _Justice_ leaped between its sister ship and the oncoming Seps. The great hangar bays closed, and one gunship, its pilot too close to safety to veer off in time, smashed against the unforgiving hull and shattered under the coldness of space.

 _I won,_ Krell thought, as the laser turrets finally went silent and the shiver of the deck plates changed from the force of enemy fire to the workings of the great hyperspace engines, _but victory tastes the same as defeat; all ashes._

 _Preserver_ jumped to hyperspace and the play of kaleidoscopic colors was as the Force - dark and cold and infinite.


	3. Ripple Effect

**Chapter Three: Ripple Effect**

 _"Impressive. You mask your presence well. Flawless timing. Perfect control. You have great skill of infiltration. My host would applaud your abilities...posthumously. However, I am not looking for a spy."_

\- Count Dooku to Asajj Ventress on Rattatack

* * *

 _Pesktda Municipal Hospital_

 _The day after..._

It was bedlam outside.

Rorge wanted to sit down and cry; every free and serviceable surface outside the medcenter was littered with the wounded. His immediate surroundings were a bloody boulevard paved with broken bodies. But Lolly's weight pressed against him urged him on, so he swallowed down his growing despair and began the arduous trek of maneuvering through and over the throng, trying to get to the actual medcenter's entrance.

He could feel Lolly trying to move with him, but truth be told, he was mostly carrying her now, instead of simply supporting her.

"C'mon, Lolly, just a bit. Just a bit further." He'd been telling her the same thing for nearly two hours now and Rorge couldn't tell if she'd heard him once. They should have stayed in the shelter a bit longer, no matter the all-clear, but his sister had grown ever more insistent they leave and look for their parents. Maybe things wouldn't have turned out so bad if they'd gone the long route and not cut across Wlesc. The academic neighborhood had been hit hard by the aerial bombardments and the siblings hadn't made it more than half a block before one of the houses - still partially burning - had collapsed almost atop of them.

Rorge was cut in several place including his face, where his right cheek had been layed open almost to the bone. But Lolly had somehow managed to break her leg during their mad dive to get to safety. The bandages Rorge had torn from his tunic had turned a deep russet, but at least they covered the pointed sliver of bone poking out of Lolly's kneecap. His crude splint might or might not be helping - Rorge only had the vaguest idea of what a splint should look like - but at the time, its presence seemed to have calmed Lolly down somewhat from the shock of being injured.

Now, he just didn't know; Lolly hadn't spoken a word for the past three blocks. She didn't even moan anymore when injudiciously shifting weight onto her injured leg and that scared Rorge almost as much as the thicken trail of blood she was leaving behind. Hadn't he heard somewhere once that screaming was good when you were injured? Something about staying conscious, or being strong?

A hand clutched at his ankle and Rorge almost went sprawling, taking Lolly with him.

"Please."

Looking down, Rorge found a young man - early twenties, maybe three or four years older than himself - staring back at him. The sight of him was enough to choke Rorge with bitter fear.

At first glance, Rorge thought the man to be dark-skinned, but there were patches of skin around one eye, his mouth, nose and cheek that were a sun-reddened light.

 _He's burned like crisp bacon,_ Rorge realized and felt his gorge rise.

"Wa…." The man's voice was little more than a croak. "Wa….ter."

"I-I don't….I mean, I can't…."

Beside him, Lolly stirred half-heartedly.

"I have to go. I have to get to the medcenter," Rorge explained and tried to free his foot from the man's grip as gently as possible. He was obviously seriously injured and he wasn't the only one. Looking past those pleading eyes, Rorge saw the man was lying on the edge of a long tarp, just one in a row of similarly maimed people. For some reason, they all had little black tags pinned to their chests.

 _They must have got caught in the fighting, or under buildings._ If he and Lolly had been just that bit slower, would they have wound up looking like this man.

For all his apparent hurts, the man wouldn't relinquish his grip. "Wat…." he repeated. "Wat….er."

"I don't _have_ any water," Rorge wailed.

"Let me."

Long, furry fingers carefully pried the man's hand off of Rorge, before pressing a flask to his cracked lips. But the burned man didn't take more than a tiny sip before seemingly falling into himself. Rorge saw the white of the man's eyes - startlingly white against his charred face - roll back in his head.

"There's nothing you can do for him, but maybe we can help this young lady."

Rorge was jolted out of his paralyze. Startled for a second time in as many minutes, he jerked towards the voice and almost unbalanced Lolly in the process. His sister swung at his side like the ragdoll she used to play with, dirty hair obscuring her face.

Looking back at Rorge was a Bothan with a long, equine face and muddy brown fur. "Let me," he said again and moved to support Lolly on her other side. Rorge hesitated; Lolly was two years younger than him, but she was a tall, solid girl and in his grey coveralls, the Bothan looked as reedy as his voice sounded. But by then, Rorge was too spent, mentally and physically, to voice his doubts and risk sending the stranger off.

"Th-thanks," he stuttered.

The Bothan didn't reply, just started to walk and Rorge and Lolly were more or less forced to follow - more, in Lolly's case, since she barely seemed capable of keeping her feet under her.

"She's lost so much blood." Rorge didn't know why he was telling the Bothan this, but now that he actually had someone helping him, he couldn't seem to shut up. "She really needs help. And my parents. We're looking for them. Have you seen them?" In his confusion, he didn't stop to consider that in a city of several millions, the chances that this Bothan knew his parents were close to zero. Just as well then that he didn't pause long enough to actually give the Bothan a chance to reply.

"Shouldn't we be heading over there?" Rorge jerked his head over Lolly's listing shoulder, towards the medcenter's main entrance.

"Jammed," the Bothan said and Rorge realized he was right.

The main entrance was jammed with people, all clamoring and crying for attention, the ruckus so loud they were actually drowning out the groans of the sea of wounded surrounding them. Doctors and nurses in bloodied smocks were pushing their way through the crowd, carrying injured inside, but their efforts didn't seem to make a dent in the mass of waiting patients. Rorge saw, but his mind still refused to grasp the full extent of the destruction wrought on his home by the Republic.

It was too much; the sight of the wounded, the screams and moans, the harried faces of the very few medical personnel and the smell of burnt flesh that, worst of all, reminded him of his family's early morning Primeday breakfasts. What little energy Rorge had possessed deserted him completely; if it hadn't been for the warmth of Lolly's body next to his and his duty as her big brother, he might have sat down then and there and wept. As it was, he simply allowed the stranger to take the lead, following the man's subtle pulls towards a side-entrance.

He was too numb to realize that others - wounded still capable of walking, or accompanied by family members willing to carry them - had begun to follow them. Not until his dirt-encrusted shoe snagged on something - he was afraid it might have been a limb barely covered by a blood-stained sheet - and he slowed to wriggle free without looking down, did he realize that he, Lolly and the strange Bothan were spearheading a small crowd. And only then, because his sudden stop caused the person behind him to walk right into him.

Confused, Rorge glanced around, gaping like a sun-struck nuna at the woman who'd run into him. She didn't even notice, just kept on walking, side-stepping slightly around Rorge with glassy, unseeing eyes. There was blood on her blouse and an injured child in her arms.

"Keep going."

The Bothan pulled gently on Lolly from where he was supporting her. "She needs help. You'll get it there."

"Where?"

"There." The Bothan's long snout jerked towards the side-entrance and, indeed, an ambulance was just pulling up, doors flinging wide to allow two medics to jump out and guide a grav-stretcher towards the entrance. Battle droids guarding the entrance stepped neatly aside and the medics disappeared inside with no fuss, no tussle. There were no desperate, waiting crowds on this end of the medcenter.

Lolly's weight suddenly shifted onto him and Rorge's knees almost buckled before he caught himself - and his sister. Once he did, he found the Bothan was gone.

"What the?" Rorge looked around, desperate to find the man again - and reclaim his help - but the crowd had swallowed the Bothan up.

 _Maybe he's gone to help his own family?_

"Hn." Lolly made a strangled questing sound in the back of her throat. "Nnnhh. Rrrorr….Rrrorge?"

Slurred, but definitely his name.

Almost shouting for joy, Rorge gently shifted his sister, laying her arm more securely across his shoulder and brushing strands of her tangled hair behind her ear, to get a good look at her face. Lolly's head was a dead weight on a neck that had apparently gone boneless, but Rorge saw that her eyes were shuttling back and forth, aware, though too bright.

"I'm here, Lolly. Don't worry, I'm getting help. You're going to be fine. I'm getting help and once your leg's fixed, we can go find mom and dad and all the rest. Everything's going to be fine." He kept the litany up, slowly pushing his way back to the forefront of the crowd that was still migrating towards the side-entrance. Atop, in bright red lettering, was EAST WING, and below that, in smaller letters, Private Convalescence.

"Halt." Three of the seven battle droids stationed at the door stepped forward to meet the crowd, blasters pressed against their spindly chests. The one in the middle was decked out in bright yellow piping and held up one three-fingered hand, as if it were a police officer directing traffic. Confused and tired, Rorge came to a shuffling stop along with the rest of the wounded.

"This is a restricted area," the droid told them. Rorge had never heard the things speak before, though they'd been patrolling Peskdta's streets for months now; it was surprisingly high-pitched and nasal. "Authorized personnel only. You are ordered to clear the vicinity immediately."

"'Clear'..." The words struck Rorge like a punch to the gut. He swiped at the sweat running down his face, wincing as his hand struck the open cut along his cheek. "How can this wing be restricted?" he demanded of the droid. "This is a _medcenter_! My sister needs help!"

"My son does, too." The quavering wail came from the woman who'd walked into Rorge. She held her injured boy out to the droid, like a vendor offering a close look at her wares. The boy didn't move and was, if at all possible, even paler than Lolly. "Please, he needs a doctor. My son. My son." She broke down into sobs, constantly repeating those two words.

Inanely, Rorge found himself paraphrasing her. "My sister. My sister. She needs help, too."

"We need a doctor!" Someone else cried from the back of the crowd.

"Where are the doctors?" For a moment, Rorge thought he recognized the reedy voice of the Bothan, but couldn't be sure in the rising tide of outcries.

"Help me. I'm _bleeding_!"

The droid just kept staring stupidly back at them, hand still raised. "This is a restricted area," it finally repeated. "Authorized personnel only. Clear the vicinity."

At that moment, a second ambulance arrived. Immediately, three more droids moved into the crowd, forcing a path for the ambulance. People cried out as the droids, none too gently, shoved them back. When the doors to the ambulance swung open, they nearly hit Rorge in the face.

The man that peered out from inside the ambulance was maybe in his mid-forties, already starting to grey a little and clearly startled by the sudden influx of bodies surrounding him on all sides. He blanched and made as if to slam the doors back closed, but his partner was already shoving the grav-stretcher forward and the first medic was pretty much pushed out of the ambulance.

A second man lay recumbent on the stretcher, but upon seeing the crowd, he managed to sit up, one splinted arm curled around his chest. He wore the grey-blue uniform of a Separatist officer.

"What's all this?" he demanded.

"Sorry, sir," the medic offered, huffing as he tried to maneuver the grav-stretcher behind the protective line of battle droids. "Don't know much-"

The droid was starting its spiel again. "This is a restricted area."

"You heard the droid," the officer snapped, his voice carrying easily over the mixed babble and sobs of the crowd. "Move out; you don't belong here."

" _My sister's hurt!_ " Rorge roared and lunged at the officer, half-dragging Lolly after him in his blind rage. He'd never felt like this before, but all of a sudden, he wanted to tear the man's throat out. How _dare_ he? " _You_ move out and give _her_ that stretcher."

The battle droid intercepted Rorge before he could take more than three steps, slamming the butt of its blaster into Rorge's chest. All the air was knocked out of him and Rorge fell back, losing his grip on Lolly.

His sister cried out as her broken leg gave beneath her and she fell onto the hard ferrocrete.

Rorge was back on his feet in an instant, fists shaking at his side. " _Bastard_!" He lunged again, ramming his shoulder into the droid's side and making a grab for its blaster. There was a flash of red, heat bloomed inside Rorge's chest and then he was falling...falling….

The pain from her leg had momentarily cleared Lolly's head, so she saw the spark of red plasma flaring up between her brother and the droid, saw Rorge slump to the ferrocrete in a boneless pile.

She started to scream even as the crowd around her erupted in a roar of outrage and surged forward, grasping and pulling at the battle droids - only to be met by a wall of blaster fire.

More screams, this time of fear and pain as much as rage and more bodies dropped next to Rorge's. People began to retreat, only to be pushed forward again by those behind them.

Lolly continued to scream, miraculously untouched by the growing frenzy of the mob, fingers digging long furrows into her cheeks as she stared at her brother. And with the tears blurring her eyes, she didn't see the wiry form of the Bothan who'd helped them earlier slip past the line of firing battle droids and into the medcenter's east wing.

* * *

 _The staff lounge_

Stana slipped into the lounge, still in the act of buttoning her white nurse's dress and nearly jumped out of her skin as movement caught in the corner of her eye.

Hand pressed to her frantically beating heart, she started to stammer out an explanation, when she registered the ugly, all-purpose grey coveralls of the custodial staff.

Letting out a breath, Stana hastily finished with the buttons, straightening out the hem of her nurse's dress as she marched over to the counter, heels clicking, and poured herself a cup of caf. Hip resting against the counter, Stana idly watched the janitor push his vibromop across the floor in slow, measured figure eights, wrinkling her nose in distaste at the rumpled, stained coverall. The janitor, a Bothan so spindly he could have been an intimate relationship of the vibromop, looked like he'd dug his way out of rubble to get to work today.

 _Likely he did just that._

Stana'd been spared that necessity by the simple fact that she'd pulled night-shift all this week and been sleeping in the nurses' quarters, where she kept several changes of clothes and a few personal items. The janitorial staff didn't have such accommodations, aside from a dingy locker room down in the medcenter's basement - and no one kept anything important down there, since the lock-panel to the locker room had been broken for going on a year now. Still, it was about time the medcenter switched to maintenance droids. They were cleaner, cheaper and just all around more practical, certainly easier to sterilize, than the flesh and blood variety.

Though, on second thought, she should probably be grateful for the medecenter's preference for organic employees. After all, there were plenty of nursing droids on the market.

Absently, she took a sip of her caf, then grimaced at the sight of the smeared prints of lipstick she'd left behind on the cup's rim. Cursing under her breath, Stana snagged a napkin wipe, spit into it, and started dabbing at her face, thoughts of the scruffy Bothan janitor immediately forgotten. She really should be doing this in the 'fresher, but there was no way she was going to do the walk of the shame down the entire length of the corridor, back to the nurses' quarters. Her little dash from the supply closet to the lounge had been more than enough, thank you _very_ much.

Behind her, someone let out a piercing whistle.

Stana gasped, whirled, and sloshed her caf all over her uniform.

" _Kriff._ Vetti!"

Leaning against one of the lounge's ancient sofas, Vetti was nearly doubled-over with laughter. "You should….see your... _face,_ Stana."

"It's. _Not._ Funny," Stana bit back. "Look at this." She gestured at the huge brown stain spreading across her chest and belly. "My uniform's ruined."

"I'm sure it was in need of a good washing anyway." Vetti's teeth were very white against the blue of her skin.

Stana blushed and unconsciously ran a hand down her dressline; it had been rucked up past her hips just a few minutes ago. "Yeah, well, you nearly gave me a heart attack."

Laughing, the Wroonian sauntered up to the counter, playfully bumping her hip against Stana's as she got her own caf and a biscuit from the tin. Though they'd all been pulling twenty-nine hour shifts since the first wailing of the air-raid sirens, Vetti managed to look as fresh as if she'd just come on duty after a good night's sleep. It was the blue skin, Stana thought, half-enviously; it lent the other woman a perpetual appearance of a tall, cool drink of water.

"Judging by the flush on your face," Vetti said around her biscuit, "your heartbeat's elevated enough for _two_ cardiac episodes. Maybe I should pull supply detail next time. Seems a good way to burn off some calories."

Stana hissed in warning. "Vetti." Quickly, she glanced at the only other occupant of the lounge, the janitor, but the Bothan seemed totally engrossed in the rhythmic motions of his cleaning, leaning so far over his vibromop, Stana wondered if he'd put himself to sleep.

"Don't worry about him," Vetti drawled, having followed her friend's gaze. "You should be more concerned about the head nurse catching you looking like that."

"Looking like what?" Hastily, Stana crumpled the napkin with her smeared lipstick and chucked it towards the nearest garbage bin. It missed, bouncing off of the bin's edge to roll along the floor. Stana let it; the janitor was here already, after all.

Rolling her eyes, Vetti took Stana by the shoulders and turned her towards the lounge's nanowave, its polished surface serving as an impromptu mirror.

"Don't know about you, but last I checked, _that_ was called _bed hair_." Vetti's grin was distorted into a leer from the nanowave's transparisteel door. "Though last I checked, we didn't keep any beds in the supply closets."

Stana gasped. Her pert little nurse's cap was askew on her head, in actual danger of falling off, while the hair she'd coiled and pinned so carefully at the start of her shift was tangled in loose knots as if someone had grabbed a hunk of it and pulled….

Face glowing red-hot, Stana abandoned her caf mug and hastily pulled the cap down, trying to fix her hair into something respectable. Vetti was right, if the head nurse caught her looking like this, Stana'd be scrubbing bedpans for a month. The woman had a zero tolerance policy when it came to _extracurricular activities_ during shifts.

 _No doubt because she's so prickly; no sentient in his right mind would touch her without full-body armor,_ Stana thought, not without some acidity and pride.

Vetti was watching her, a wry grin on her face as she sipped from her caf. "Let me guess, that cute sergeant from the security detail?"

Stana grit her teeth. She liked Vetti, she really did, but…. "Mind your own business, Vetti."

The Wroonian contemplated the ceiling tiles, pretending the other woman hadn't spoken. "Can't say I blame you, he _is_ quite a looker, especially in that tight uniform of his. Think he'd like a taste of blue, or does he only go for the pretty brunettes?"

"Vetti." Stana glared at the other nurse, the effect somewhat ruined by the fact that she was trying to pin her cap back into place.

"How long is he staying around for?"

"I don't know." Stana sighed, shoulders slumping. She wasn't going to divert Vetti anytime soon; might as well just give in and indulge in a little gossip. "As long as Dr. Kattic stays, I guess."

Vetti made a little thoughtful sound. "You're in luck then. I don't think the old man is going to leave the medcenter anytime soon. If at all."

"He's that bad?" Kattic wasn't one of Stana's patients, but most of the east wing staff was mad with curiosity about him. It wasn't everyday that a patient was admitted with his own security detail and a blank ID chip. Not that that precaution had kept Kattic's identity a secret for long. The old man was a fixture at the Agricultural University and on a planet where pretty much two-thirds of every conversation revolved around crops, someone had been bound to recognize him. The guards at his door still insisted on anonymity, though. Stana thought that was stupid, but who was she to argue with the government?

"He's not good." Vetti swirled her caf around. "That lab accident did a number on him and he's _old_. Body just doesn't have the reserves left to fight. His fever's been spiking on and off these last two days; Doctor Miek doesn't think his heart can keep up under the strain for much longer. Miek scheduled Kattic for an artificial heart, but who knows how long that'll take, with everything that's going on…." She vaguely waved a blue-skinned hand at the blacked-out windows of the lounge.

"What about his lab assistant?" Stana remembered hearing the assistant had been admitted the same day, though not in the prodigious east wing.

"Died four days ago." The Wroonian shrugged. "Hanelle, from ICU, told me he was a mess when they brought him in. Sloughing off skin, babbling like a loon about treason and black dust."

Silence settled between them. Stana checked her appearance one last time in the nanowave's reflective surface, dimly noting the janitor had finally put away his vibromop was now busily emptying the trash bins, dumping the contents into his waiting trundle cart.

Biting her lips to get a bit of color back into them, she asked hesitantly, "Have you…. _heard_ anything since the attack, from your family-"

"No." Vetti moved to the sink, turning her back on Stana as she dumped the rest of the caf down the drain.

Floundering in the sudden coldness, Stana offered: "I-I heard the fighting was worst in the University Plaza, so the inner city should still be in pretty good shape-"

"Half the city's burning, the other half is slag," Vetti snapped. Whatever good humor had been left was wiped from her face, the blue skin tinged grey around her lips and nose. "The wonderful, peace-loving Republic tore us a new one or have you been so busy screwing your soldier that you hadn't noticed the litter of dead and dying out in the compound? Did your wonderful sergeant order the battle droids to fire on those people?"

The sudden turn in the conversation caught Stana off guard. "I don't….He didn't….That _never_ happened, Vetti; Administration sent the memo to every floor. You shouldn't be spreading rumors like that. _Or_ point fingers."

Vetti snorted. "Sure, Stana, just keep telling yourself that."

The Wroonian began opening cabinets, sorting empty hypos and little plasti-cups onto a tray. "I need to get these filled."

"Vetti."

"I have noon rounds to make, Stana." She'd forgotten to lock up the cabinets again, but neither woman paid that fact much attention. "And I'm sure you've got other things waiting for you, aside from your soldier's privates."

Vetti turned on her heels and clattered out, leaving a stunned and flushing Stana behind.

Angry and humiliated - who did Vetti think she was? - Stana loaded her own tray in preparation for rounds. She briefly thought about locking the supply cabinets, then shrugged it off. If the head nurse complained, Stana would tell her it was Vetti who'd forgot to lock the cabinets - which was true. It wasn't Stana's job to clean up after Vetti and besides, what did it matter if a few empty hypoinjectors got lost?

As she rushed out of the lounge, Stana briefly caught sight of the janitor, dutifully picking up their discarded mugs and placing them in the sink.

* * *

 _Room 4D_

Major Traffel was a man of habits and by all the deities neither age, injury or some virago of a head nurse would keep him from indulging in them.

Digging into the seat cushions of his chair, the major pulled out a battered pack of cigarras, a small lighter, and lit up.

Glowering at the closed door to his room - it was against the medcenter's policy to allow actual _locks_ on a patient's room - Traffel took a long drag on his cigarra, savoring the taste of the t'bac on his tongue before blowing the smoke out of the open window. He watched it curl on the night's breeze, joining the thick swathes of acrid smoke already gathering over Pesktda. In the distance, individual fires still burned; except for emergency vehicles, speeder traffic had been prohibited and as a result, he could hear the wail of sirens from all corners of the city.

The Republic had given Garqi a good kick in the teeth, but the city was still standing. Idly, Traffel considered turning on the room's flatscreen for the latest news broadcast, but the sound was likely to draw the attention of one of the roaming nurses and he wasn't in the mood to listen to another female tantrum over his smoking.

Traffel _hrumphed,_ and took an _extra_ long drag on the cigarra, mentally thumbing his nose at the lot of them. His lungs had held out just fine for the last fifty-four years, they'd last another week or however long he'd have to wait for his lung transplant. Bunch of white-clad harpies, those nurses, and the head harpy was the worst of the bunch, though the little brunette that brought him his meds, food and took his blood pressure was pretty enough. Certainly easier on the eyes than the continuously monotone beige walls of his room. Traffel couldn't wait to get out of this accursed medcenter and back into the fray. He'd felt the walls and very floor beneath his feet shake with the force of the Republic's aerial bombardment and if anything, it had whetted his appetite.

The _instant_ he got his new lungs he was shaking the antiseptic off of his boots and would put in for a transfer to one of the cruisers. No more sitting behind a desk, steering the stone frigate; Traffel was going to show that mass product the Republic called an army how a _real_ flesh and blood man fought a war. With an estimated trillion battle droids ready to take up arms, the CIS was only in need of the right commander in the field to finally deal the Republic that crushing blow - and Traffel wouldn't make the mistake of leaving a planet beaten, but essentially unbroken.

The tip of his cigarra bobbed up and down as as Traffel puffed away, his fleshy frame racked by the occasional cough that left his chest sore and aching. With some irritation, he adjusted the nasal cannula plugging up his nostrils, which kept him from blowing the smoke out through his nose, like the deities had intended a man should enjoy his cig. His eyes, pushed deeply into a dowy, sallow face, shifted from the smoky ruins of the city to the twin oxygen tanks floating serenely on their repulsor bed by his side.

 _Fardling things._

It was their fault the nursing staff had confiscated all of his cigarras the first day of his stay at the medcenter. Supposedly, there was some risk of an explosion and because he'd proven 'obstinate' - according to the head nurse - they kept right on searching through his belongings after every visit from his relatives and aides.

Traffel's snort of amusement turned into a hacking cough. Thought they were so smart, didn't they, but they never thought to check their own staff; never considered there might be a traitor amongst them.

The major was no stranger to bribery and for what it was worth, the janitor who regularly serviced the east wing worked cheap. A couple of creds every other day and Traffel was swimming in his prefered brand of cigarras. The lighter had been extra.

He grimaced as he realized he'd likely have to pay the same amount again. The janitor who'd cleaned his room today had been a different bloke from the one he'd paid off - a Bothan, scruffy in appearance and thin as a rake. No doubt Traffel's usual man had died during the Republic's attack. It'd been the right time to hit transit stations and commuters would have been plentiful and vulnerable; looking out the window Traffel couldn't see any mag-lev lines still intact. The credits didn't bother him - he could easily afford a bribe twice that high and barely blink - but going through the process a second time irked him. The commander did not like repeat work, but the Bothan didn't inspire much confidence. Dreadful creatures, really, those Bothans. Always selling out to the highest bidder. No doubt the furry little wamp rat would tattle to the nurses the nanosecond he'd pocketed Traffel's credits. No, he'd wait until a Human janitor was back in place before striking any new deals. His man had supplied him only the day before yesterday - he could afford to wait, so long as he rationed himself.

Discontent over the prospect, Traffel gave the oxygen tanks' repulsor bed a swift kick. The repuslors' hum increased and the bed rocked slightly from side-to-side, but that was all. At least the Bothan had been good for something; though lacking in cigarras he was willing to sell, the janitor had at least helped Traffel switch out the bottles of pure oxygen before continuing on his rounds, though the effort to lift the heavy bottles had looked like it might snap the furry's frame in half.

Traffel ground out his cigarra, flicked the bud out of the open window and promptly lit a second. He savored the silkiness of the t'bac as it moved over his tongue, letting it linger like a fine vintage of wine.

The major's generous mouth quirked at the thought, jiggling his jowls - what wondrous poets people become at one in the morning - and turned to gaze out the window once more. The air was thick with the scents of smoke, burned ozone and sirens, the sky covered in bruises where the search lights of rescue vehicles lit the clouds. It was a night made for quiet contemplation.

So deep was he in thought, that Traffel almost didn't hear the quiet beeping.

Confused, Traffel turned away from the window and the ruined hulk of Pesktda, squinting through the darkness of his private room. Had those fardling witches in white actually _bugged_ his room with some new-fangled smoke detector?

He was already heaving his considerable weight out of the chair, puffing like a volcano, when he realized the sound was coming from the vicinity of his elbow. From his oxygen tanks, to be exact.

Bending over was no easy task for a man of Traffel's girth, but he managed to wriggled about far enough in the chair that he could lean closer to the little data display mounted at the bottom of the repulsor bed. The beeping seemed to come from there, along with an urgently blinking little red light. How long had that been there?

Traffel brought the cigarra closer to the tanks, trying to read the display by the sullen glow of the burning tip. The darned things couldn't be empty again, could they?

By the time he heard the oh-so-quiet _hissss_ of air escaping the feeder tubes, the lit end of the cigarra had already passed through the stream of pure oxygen.

For the briefest of moments, a thin snake of fire illuminated the room and Traffel's pale face, before it reached into the oxygen tanks and set the whole room ablaze.

* * *

 _Outside Room 9I_

There were three of them, not counting the sergeant, and as far as Xane was concerned, that was three too many.

Yes, the old man was a person of interest to the CIS; _yes,_ he'd barely escaped the assassination attempt that had landed him in the medcenter in the first place with his life and, _yes,_ a good soldier followed orders without complaining - at least, out loud.

But Xane was very conscious of the fact that he was amongst the few Confederate soldiers not made of durasteel and circuits and being confined to the clean, dull environment of a medcenter wing, with nothing to do but stand at attention and check security tags, rankled. He'd wanted to be _outside,_ cutting down the Republic's flesh-droids, fighting for freedom and against corruption. Not to mention battle was where lowly privates earned their stripes and Xane didn't plan on staying on NCO forever. A nice captain's bar was his goal, and those weren't handed out to hopped-up door-guards.

It just figured that his number would come up for guard duty just as the Republic decided to make Garqi a hotspot - his typical luck.

"Think the sarge is off on his rounds?" Podrick kept his voice low, so that only Xane and Beeker, positioned on either side of him, could hear.

Beeker rolled his eyes, the motion hidden by the brim of his cap. "Oh, he's gotten off, alright."

"On that pretty brunette nurse," Xane added and the three of them shared a quick, indulgent smirk.

To an outside, Xane knew, their amusement and its source wouldn't be apparent. All three of them were veterans of tedious duties and had mastered the art of conversing while giving the appearance that their full attention was riveted elsewhere. It kept the brass happy and the tedium to a tolerable level.

Really, if it weren't for his buddies, Xane figured he'd gone barvy on this job days ago. There really was only so much _beige_ a man could take before starting to claw at the walls; during nightshift especially, Xane sometimes had the feeling as if the walls of the medcenter were closing in on him.

A pair of pretty nurses - there didn't seem to be any other kind employed in the east wing - sauntered past the trio during one of their endless M&M runs: meals and meds. Xane let his eyes travel down their bodies appreciatively, admiring the way the white nurse's dress clung to their curves _just_ right.

"Haven't heard any shooting for a while." Beeker was officially 'on break,' so he was entitled to the only chair the soldiers had been provided with. While Xane and Podrick blocked the entrance to Dr. Kattic's room, Beeker had the chair on a slight angle, back braced comfortably against the wall; after several days of hour-long standing about, they were all suffering from some serious backaches. Anyone 'on break' - and Xane used that term loosely, since only the sarge actually left the vicinity of the door, while they took turns sleeping in the chair - was also in charge of the squad's comlink and monitoring the relevant CIS channels for updates on the fighting and the cleanup efforts.

So far, the estimated death toll amongst the civvies had climbed into the thousands.

"The droids finally rooted out the last of the squaddies." Xane was glad; he hoped every last one of the clones wound up with a mouth full of plasma. He was Garqi born and bred and still waiting on news from his family's homestead. Hopefully they'd been far enough away from the fighting.

"They won't be back," Podrick opined. His eyes were continuously sweeping the stretch of corridor ahead of them. "Not after the licking our troops gave the bootstraps."

Not to mention their own government. Xane had no love for the clones and would shoot any canned-spam he came across without the barest tinge of regret - it wasn't like they were _Human,_ after all. Still, when the tide of battle had turned against them, the Republic's officers had turned tail and escaped the system, leaving their own troops trapped behind enemy lines. If the Jedi were willing to do _that_ to mere clones, what chance did regular people like Xane and his family have? If anything, yesterday's battle had reaffirmed Xane's belief in the righteousness of the CIS' cause; the Republic was corrupt to the core, led by individuals solely focused on their own advancement - everyone else be damned.

"And they'll be back," Xane finished out loud, for the benefit of Podrick and Beeker. It wouldn't do for the civvies to overhear their conversations; they'd been panicked enough during the actual battle, running about like headless nuna. Xane didn't want a repeat of that. Grown men, in his opinion, shouldn't fall apart like that. He was still undecided about the women.

"You ever hear of the Reps backing off when _freeing_ a planet?"

Beeker snorted and fiddled a little with the comlink. "Like we need to be freed."

Ten minutes passed.

Xane idly began to watch the comings and goings of the lone janitor, for lack of anything better to do. The Bothan wasn't anyone Xane recognized, but that wasn't surprising. Plenty of the medcenter's staff had been rotated about to deal with the sudden influx of injured, until no one really knew where he or she was supposed to be and everyone just migrated from one catastrophe to the next. The east wing's medical staff had been spared this torment to a certain degree, unlike the menial laborers.

 _He's probably been mopping up blood all day._ It was a singularly depressing thought and the Bothan's outward appearance only seemed to correlate the assumption. He was scruffy, grey coveralls stained, back bent as if only the vibromop were keeping him upright. Even the brown fur peeking out from under the coveralls looked lackluster.

Xane felt a little sorry for the furry; his hours must be even crappier than those of Xane and his squad - certainly the pay was. But the fellow went about his tasks with commendable single-minded determination: emptying the waste bins, wiping down the floors, even dusting the tastefully bland prints on the walls. An automated trundle cart followed after him like a faithful dog. Occasionally, the Bothan would disappear into a patient's room to clean, but he wisely passed by room 9I after a single, furtive glance at the trio of soldiers.

After another hour, the sergeant did a quick check-in and was off again, this time trailing after a blue-skinned Wroonian nurse. Xane wondered if the brunette knew about those two?

By 0131 local time, it was Xane's turn on the chair.

The door _exploded_ from a room down the corridor, a gush of flame shooting out of the blackened opening. Startled, Xane hit his head against the wall, almost falling off of the chair as the fire-alarms began shrieking bloody murder.

" _Fek_!" Podrick and Beeker were already scrambling, Podrick ripping the extinguisher off of the wall as he raced by, Xane hard on their heels.

But the staff was already out and screaming their milking heads off, running every which way, some towards the fire, most away and all of them getting in the way of the soldiers. Xane was peripherally aware of the sergeant stumbling out of a supply closet, buckling his belt, but then the heat of the flames was slapping him in the face and Xane forgot everything as he began battling the blaze.

Briefly, he thought he saw someone moving inside the room, a rotund figure gesticulating wildly, but Xane couldn't be sure. It could have been just a tangle of flames, playing tricks on his eyes. He hoped to all the stars it was just that.

Above, the sprinkler system began to shed fat tears of water.

* * *

 _Room 9I_

Someone was calling his name, while off in the distance, he could hear weeping.

When Oben Kattic, microbiologist and biochemist at the Agricultural University, opened his eyes, he found his immediate environs had been reduced to a splotchy, monochromatic blur. Blinking did no good, except make him aware of the crust in his right eye. The left one burned a little, as if an eyelash had gotten caught beneath the lid and when he concentrated on the sensation, he realized that the left side of his vision wasn't blurry at all, but completely dark.

A thin finger of alarm slid into his belly; he groped about in an attempt to identify his surroundings.

"Easy, Doctor." A hand was laid gently above his and Kattic felt the tickle of fur against his own pebbled skin.

His right eyestalk pivoted in the direction of the voice, but all he could make out was a large, brown splotch.

"Wha…." His voice was a croak, barely recognizable.

The brown splotch shifted slightly and Kattic felt the tip of a straw press against his lips. He sucked greedily, the tepid water sliding down his throat like a blessing.

"We don't have much time; my little distraction won't keep the guards occupied for long."

The straw was removed despite Kattic's protests.

"Hush, Doctor," the voice said. "The alarms aren't _that_ loud."

Alarms? Still only half awake from his drug-induced haze, Kattic strained to listen and….yes, what he'd thought had been crying was actually the strident shrilling of some kind of siren. Strange, that he'd thought them weeping.

"Do you know why I'm here, Doctor Kattic?"

"Hn?" Kattic's head rolled from side-to-side on his pillow as he tried to get a better view of his visitor. As if sensing his distress, the blotch moved closer until Kattic could make out the faint outlines of an long-nosed, furred humanoid, marginally equestrian in appearance.

Despite the water, it took several attempts for Kattic to get his tongue around the words. "N-no, I….I don't."

The hand still lying atop his gave a reassuring pat.

"You asked to be extracted, Doctor Kattic, remember? You wanted sanctuary from the Republic, in return for handing over the results of your work. But you suffered an _accident,_ before a proper extraction could be arranged."

Sanctuary? The Republic? An accident?

Slowly, his mind cleared, the pieces of memory falling back into place. Of course, yes, he'd contacted the Republic as soon as he'd realized the full import of his latest project and the uses his superiors would have him put it to. He'd wanted an out; been gathering all his things, tying up loose ends in preparation for his flight when Deng, his assistant had stormed into his lab, shouting and waving fists. Kattic's memory was still incomplete, but he distinctly remembered the shove Deng had given, the bite of cold transparisteel as he'd crashed into - _through_ \- the refrigeration units where…..where….

Where he stored the hazardous chemicals necessary for his work.

Feeling suddenly sick, dizzy, Kattic tried to focus on his body, but strong fingers grasped his chin and moved his focus back to the splotch looming over him. The Republic agent.

"You're here to...to take me away?" Kattic asked hopefully.

"Yes, far away. But first, where is _it_ , Doctor Kattic? Where is the Waste?"

Kattic grimaced over the name, but managed to take in the room - out of focus as it was. The Bivall scientist might be old, his maroon skin mottled with grey, but his mind still retained its sharp analytical capabilities. Though he'd been mostly unconscious for the duration of his stay at the medcenter - the only logical conclusion, given his last memories and current state - it was relatively easy to deduce where his personal affects had been stored.

"CG49M," Kattic croaked, giving the substance its proper name. "Over there. In the wardrobe. A hidden compartment in….in my spectacle case."

The agent was already on the move, rummaging through the wardrobe.

Kattic leaned back in his pillows; talking had sapped him of what little strength he'd had, but he took the time to take stock of his own physical condition.

What he found profoundly shocked him.

His eyesight wasn't improving, but if the dark grey shapes surrounding his bed were monitors, quietly beeping and humming to themselves, then he was attached to a frighteningly high plethora of medical equipment. The more aware he became, the more conscious he also grew of the steady thrum of pain running through his body, though it seemed concentrated in his left side. It was the kind of pain that was barely tolerable now and would no doubt increase exponentially as the pain meds wore off.

Kattic's hand fumbled, but he finally managed to run his fingers over his face. Bandages, silkily soft, covered most of the left side of his face, including the eyestalk. Trying to lift the left hand proved an impossibility - it seemed to weigh the rough equivalent of a ronto. Shifting his left leg produced an odd tingly sensation, almost like an itch, but Kattic's eyesight was too bad to tell what condition his leg was in. In fact, through the blurring and the continued absence of color, it almost looked as if the sheet covering him drooped _down_ just below his knee….But _surely_ that was just a trick of his bad eye and the light.

Abruptly, Kattic realized that there was light to see by, faint though it was, though none of the room's lumen globes appeared to be lit. Indeed, the light seemed to come from a corridor outside, creeping in from beneath his door. He couldn't tell its color, but the light flickered strangely, as if alive.

"Very clever, Doctor." The agent was back at his bedside and brought a small vial up close to Kattic's good eye for his inspection. "This is the only viable example of the Waste you've produced then?"

"My lab…."

"If good General Krell followed his orders, your lab is no longer of concern."

Krell? The dizziness increased; Kattic clutched at the sheet for some measure of stability.

"I don't understand."

"You don't have to." The vial, no longer than his middle finger, vacuum sealed and surrounded by durasteel clasps, disappeared. "And now, Doctor, it's time to go."

"B-but _how_?" It only now dawned on Kattic that he was in no condition to attempt an escape. Moisture gathered at the corner of his right eye - but not the left. He'd staked it all on this one attempt, gambled on the Republic's reliability and lost it all in the angry accusations Deng had shouted at him. A mere stumble, literally rather than figuratively, had brought him to fall and now? What would happen to him? If the CIS found out about his attempted defection….

Kattic shuddered.

"It's all been arranged."

At the agent's words, hope bloomed, strong and fresh, in the old Bivall's heart and Kattic would have thanked the man, but the agent had moved out of his limited line of sight. Confused, Kattic peered through the room, then felt a slight tug on his left hand. He turned his head in that direction, straining to overcome the dark spot that was his left eye. Something thin, tall and grey appeared in his periphery. An IV stand?

Another tug, sharper this time and Kattic felt warmth rush into his hand, tingling its way up his arm, through his veins.

"A stim?" he guessed. Would that be enough to get him moving?

The agent did not answer.

Kattic waited for the burst of strength, of energy, to rush through his body, but instead a great feeling of lassitude crept into his limbs. He blinked, tried to wiggle his fingers, but his hands felt very far away and not attached to his body.

"What?"

There was smoke on the air, he thought distantly. And the alarms hadn't stopped their wailing. How odd. Was that….Was that _shouting_ he heard? Screams? Or...or the weeping from earlier?

 _But that was just a dream._

The agent's long, equine face pushed itself into Kattic's limited field of view, close enough this time for the doctor to make out one clear, brown eye set in limp fur.

"The Republic thanks you for your service, Doctor."

Kattic tried to respond, but his chest was too heavy, crushing the air out of his lungs. His one working eye rolled on its stalk as it tried to follow the blurred outline of the agent, his mouth gaping wide and wordless.

There was light all of a sudden, grey light that danced and flickered and he'd been right, it was shouting he'd heard earlier, many voices shouting all at once.

 _But it sounds like weeping,_ he thought dimly, just as the machines by his bed began to wail as well, crying high and shrill as the light disappeared and Kattic slipped away.

* * *

Game. Set. Match.

The corridor was a study in panic.

The soldiers were still battling the fire, which seemed to have spread to a trundle cart commonly used by the janitorial staff, which had been left just outside room 4D. The cleaning fluids proved highly flammable and the cart was little more than a dark outline amidst the fire, tongues of flames eagerly licking up the wall and along the floor, despite the steady drenching from the sprinklers.

The air was thick with smoke and the shapes that moved within were bent over double, coughing hard as they ran.

Tr'ansom slipped into the stream of fleeing people, letting the flow of patients and staff carry him towards the emergency exits. The fire-alarms were still going strong, their wailing drowning out most of the terror of the east wing's occupants - and certainly the insignificant alarms of heart-monitor reading flatline.

It was easy to get lost in chaos.

He kept low with the rest of them, one arm curled protectively about his chest, as if in injury, his hand pressed over the shielded pocket sewn into the inside of his coveralls, where he'd secreted the Waste. A patient on crutches slipped on the stairwell; Tr'ansom grabbed the man and helped him the rest of the way.

Against the staggering heat of the corridor, the early morning air was shockingly cool. The man he'd helped collapsed on the rim of a decorative fountain, shut down or failed during the battle, and Tr'ansom left him there, to be attended by the doctors and nurses already swarming the plaza. Though a new day was breaking, outside the hospital, things still seemed suspended, the same hectic activity as when he'd come in.

The amount of bodies waiting for help didn't seem to have diminished in the least. Tr'ansom moved through them, stopping once to help a harried-looking doctor with a patient in the throes of a seizure; finding a blanket to cover the body of a young woman, while her husband and two children stared on, empty-eyed with shock and once, even doubling back a ways, carrying a little boy covered in scrapes and bruises - though nothing worse - to a pair of idling security officers. The boy was just about Tr'ansom's own Eelo's age; maybe his parents were still alive.

But always, always, he was working towards the edge of the milling crowd, away from the medcenter and back onto the streets of Pesktda. Tr'ansom had what he'd come for, now it was time to work on his retrieval.

He was done with Garqi.


	4. Debatable

**Author's Note:** This chapter references characters and events from Karen Traviss' _RepCom_ novel, _True Colors_ and the _Star Wars: Gambit_ duology, written by Karen Miller. All reads worth checking out.

* * *

 **Chapter Four: Debatable**

 _"Between the stars, so much darkness there is. Why would I throw away one who burns so brightly?"_

\- Grand Master Yoda to Padawan Tallisibeth Enwandung-Esterhazy ("Scout")

* * *

 _The Jedi Temple, Coruscant, Core Worlds_

Night had settled on Coruscant, though darkness was a relative concept to the ecumenopolis.

In the underworld, below the toxic wall of braze, the night never ended, but where Coruscant's spacescrapers pierced the clouds, innumerable lights - homes, speeders, signs, billboards, lightpoles - turned the night into a brilliant, neverending dusk.

From the summit of the High Council Tower, one had a breathtaking, three-hundred-sixty degree view of the sparkling spectacle that was the Republic's beating heart.

Hands tented before him, Jedi Master Mace Windu bent his head towards that pulse, a conglomeration of repulsor whines from the ever-present skylanes and the sonorous vibrations within the Force of a trillion sentient beings living together harmoniously.

More or less.

 _And more of_ less _with every passing day,_ he admitted ruefully.

A throat cleared, the sound not quite apologetic, but with just enough hesitancy to suggest someone was already sorry to have intruded on the Chamber's quiet.

"General Zey." Windu glanced up to where the other Jedi stood by the tall, carved wooden doors, half in and half out of the High Council Chamber. "It's that time of the month again."

Zey's mouth twitched at the involuntary joke. "No rest for the busy."

Arligan Zey was a big man, with a big man's stride that ate the distance between the doors and the middle of the Chamber with ease. But there was a definite lack of spring to the Human's steps and more grey in his hair and beard than at last month's debriefing.

Watching him, Windu felt an answering pang of weariness. He could not even remember the last time he'd strode across a room with anything but determination contrived of duty and desperation. Energy didn't even factor into it anymore.

"I'd nearly forgotten how large the Council Chamber is," Zey noted with a quick glance around the empty ring of chairs. He tapped the marble floor with the scuffed toe of his boot. "The floor could use a polishing."

Truth, with just a hint of impertinence.

Windu settled back into his chair, eyes narrowing slightly as he mentally reset and focused on the situation at hand.

"A task traditionally assigned to Padawans, of which the Temple currently houses few." One dark eyebrow rose slightly in suggestion. "But if you'd care to volunteer your services, General Zey…" He deliberately trailed off.

Zey gave a courteous bow, the image of the dutiful Jedi. "Wish that I could, General Windu, however, conquering my inbox is currently taking up all the hours of my day. Perhaps if the Senate could contrive to assign more men to Special Operations….I'm sure those clones currently tasked to tracking down our _misplaced_ troopers wouldn't object to a reassignment."

Windu barely suppressed a sigh. They had gone over this ground before, privately and in full Council, but Zey was like an anooba with a bone - he would not relent on the issue. And privately, Windu understood and even commended the man's determination. The revelation of squads of clone assassins hunting down and killing ARCs and commandos believed to have gone AWOL was…. _disquieting._ The Council had launched an investigation, but it was one of many operations currently underway and the shadow of the Sith infiltrator loomed over them all. For now, the search for the Sith lord had to be the Council's priority.

 _Find the Sith, and we may unravel this web of darkness we're caught in with one sharp tug._

"You have the Council's answer, General Zey. The matter has been brought before the Chancellor and is-"

"- under discussion," Zey finished for him. "Yes, so you've said. Often."

"Then I will not have to repeat myself again."

Zey's broad face darkened. "I don't have the same luxury. Sergeant Skirata demands answers of me daily and he is not a man of patience - nor prudence. I'll have an all-out mutiny on my hands before long. And I can't very well dismiss the man; he's the only one capable of controlling those Nulls of his."

Problems, everywhere he looked. Windu reflexively glanced at the low meditation pad to his right, where Yoda had spent much of his time these past few decades. But of course, the pad was empty, as were the rest of the seats, save his own. The Grand Master, along with his fellow Council Members, were scattered across the Republic territories, trying to end this war.

Which left him to weather the siege of Senate, Chancellor and bureaucracy against the Temple alone.

Windu rubbed at his brow, feeling the beginnings of a headache. "When you took over office of Director of Special Forces from Master Camas, it was under the impression that you could keep your men in line."

The other Jedi tucked his hands into the sleeves of his robes, but not before Windu noted they were fisted. Frustration and exasperation hung about the Jedi Master like a cloud ready to burst.

 _Anger waiting to ripen,_ Windu reflected. _And we all know where anger will lead us._

"The men - the troopers - aren't the problem," Zey said. "It's Skirata and the rest of the _Cuy'val Dar._ Corellians aren't the only ones who don't like to be driven. To be frank, trying to keep a Mandalorian in line is like trying to herd a swarm of tooka cats over the Agao Ranges in the pouring rain. One is always likely to slip away in the chaos."

"A colorful description." _And apt,_ Windu admitted. The Council had not been in favor of recalling the _Cuy'val Dar_ to active duty, but as with most things, they'd been overridden by the Chancellor's cool logic.

 _"We lost almost half of our ARC troopers on Geonosis. Half. And we're losing more daily. Our clone army needs to be the best if we are to win this war, and the Mandalorian-trained commandos have the highest survival rate in the GAR. Numbers don't lie, Master Jedi."_

No, numbers did not lie, but neither were they the answer to his sleepless nights.

Heedless of his musings, Zey said, "The Mandalorians are a colorful bunch. Perhaps they could put the situation more adequately to the Chancellor than I can. Beige robes don't seem to make much of an impression in the Senate anymore."

Windu's mouth drew into a frown. "I can understand your frustrations, General Zey, but I will not tolerate an attitude more befitting a green Padawan then a seasoned Knight. Mind your thoughts - and your temper."

The Council Chamber was sparsely lit - all the better to allow the garish lights of Courscant's skyline to wash through the windows - so the scowl on Zey's face might have been a mere trick of the shadows. But the Knight _did_ take a few, steadying breaths, his broad shoulders straining against the fabric of his rumpled robes.

Arligan Zey was a man who forever looked to be splitting at the seams.

Windu tested the eddies of the Force, disliking the wariness of his touch, but unable to help himself. Even here in the Temple, a nexus of the light side of the Force, he could feel the murky waters of the dark side just beneath the surface, waiting to pull the unwary down.

The dark sided clouded all these days and immersing himself in the Force was no longer the sweet, almost painful joy he remembered from his childhood. Now, even the lightest of meditations was a struggle to peer past thickening curtains. There was no clarity in the Force any longer and above all, Mace Windu hated the feeling of blindly groping his way forward, when so much depended on the decisions he and his fellow Council Members made.

If, he amended ruefully, they actually ever managed to assemble a full Council to reach a decision. Like Chancellor Palpatine, Windu and Yoda found more and more of the daily routines and responsibilities of governance thrust on them by those who were meant to share the burden.

When he'd judged that enough time had passed for Zey to regain his composure, Windu leaned forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees, fingers steepled before his face.

"The Chancellor has asked for an update on the situation on Garqi," Windu finally said.

Zey pursed his lips at the abrupt change in topic, but let it slide. The time for his personal grievances had passed; he'd pick them up later, no doubt, at his next monthly debriefing and then they would do this dance again. Both men knew it and neither was happy about it - not at the repeatability, nor about the inconclusiveness.

"Captain Maze has rendezvoused with Agent Varrak and the two of them are on their way to Nerrif Station. From there, they'll take a shuttle to a Republic outpost and change vessels. Agent Varrak," his lips twisted, as if he'd tasted something sour, "has a plan for getting past Garqi's planetary security, but felt it unnecessary to share the details with me."

 _Varrak._ The name was familiar. Obi-Wan had mentioned the prickly agent in his report on Lanteeb in words that had been _terse_ by his standards.

Windu cocked a single brow at the other Jedi. "One ARC trooper and agent? Will they be sufficient?" The Chancellor was not likely to think so; Palpatine was always urging the Order to commit more Jedi and resources, when they were already stretched to the breaking point.

"Captain Maze is more than competent," Zey replied with undeniable stiffness. "As is Agent Varrak." He hesitated a moment, then admitted, "Those commando squads I can trust to handle a mission of such delicacy are already engaged in other critical missions, as are all my other ARCs."

"The Chancellor wants this done quickly and quietly."

Zey eyed him carefully, as if testing the waters. "Perhaps if the Chancellor could convince Republic Intelligence to share more of the details, my people would have a better idea of what they're looking for. Searching an entire planet for one man is difficult enough, but for _three decades_ worth of his research?"

"The Chancellor has made his feelings on the matter very clear. Secrecy is a top priority. We cannot risk another panic like after the attack on Hanna City." Even as he said the words, unease coiled in Windu's stomach. Palpatine had not taken the Jedi's handling of the Lanteeb crisis well and had since demanded more openness on the part of the Jedi, while keeping more secrets from the Council in turn. What had already been an uneasy relationship between the Order and Senate was now growing increasingly uncomfortable, if not downright hostile on the part of some senators.

"Then it's another bio-weapon we're after?" Zey asked.

"I don't know," Windu was forced to admit. "Suffice to say that this Doctor Kattic's research would prove harmful to the Republic."

"Then it would be best to send Quinlan Vos to Garqi as well." Zey had withdrawn his hands from his sleeves to stroke his short, greying beard in thought. "If there's a man to find a needle in a haystack, it's Vos, and he has experience in undercover assignments…"

"General Vos is already on assignment."

"Is there a chance to recall-"

"No."

Zey was silent for a long moment, studying the Master Jedi, before heaving a great sigh. "In that case…."

"Yes?" Windu urged when the other Jedi trailed off. "Go on."

Zey cleared his throat, shifting from foot-to-foot and plucking at the edges of his robe.

Windu could taste Zey's uncertainty on the Force: heavy and with a slight tang of green, like the humid jungle of his homeworld. Whatever was on the other man's mind, it did not sit well with him.

"If General Vos is unavailable, then I could….well," he cleared his throat again, wincing slightly over his own words. "There is always Commander Arhen."

Windu was about to open his mouth and tell Zey that he was mistaken, that Arhen was already deeply embroiled on Felucia, but caught himself. _Commander Arhen, not_ General _Arhen._ The sister, instead of the brother.

His first thought to the suggestion was not a gracious one, though honest: _You've got to be kidding me._

Zey must have seen some of this reflected on his face, or in the Force, for the other Jedi grimaced, but gamely went on. "The Arhen girl is unorthodox, I know-"

"She's one of Djinn Altis' people. That's a little more than unorthodox." Windu rubbed at his brow, where the headache was beginning to brew in earnest. "Does she even have _any_ battlefield experience?"

"Not...directly." Zey brushed a stray strand of greying hair from his eyes, looking more exasperated by the moment. "We already have too many unseasoned officers on the frontlines; I didn't want to add another."

Windu's thoughts briefly wandered to Ahsoka Tano, Skywalker's young Padawan, quite literally in the thick of things and, invariably, to the Padawan Pack - dead in Jabiim's mud.

"Indeed," he said, so softly the sound failed to carry in the vast Chamber.

Zey obviously hadn't heard. "Commander Arhen doesn't have Vos' psychometry, but she's demonstrated a talent for finding things."

Windu tapped one finger against the other before meeting the other Jedi's gaze. "Tell me truthfully, General Zey, would _you_ want her at your side in a battle?"

He was thinking of a dojo in the Tower of First Knowledge; of a tear-streaked, petulant face and words shouted in anger.

 _She defeated herself before ever raising her lightsaber to me._

Zey drew a hand over his face, tired and defeated and gave a sigh. "Honestly? No. She has skills, but she's…." The man struggled for the right words, before finally giving a shrug. "We can't all be Master Yoda. But the Order isn't exactly in a position to look a gift Jedi in the mouth. And what Commander Arhen lacks in battlefield experience, her clone partner has in spades. The lieutenant has been on Geonosis, as well as Atraken and Jabiim."

Geonosis with its red sands; the continual rains of Jabiim; the sorrow of Atraken. Two defeats and one dubious victory for the Republic and thousands left dead. No doubt the trooper was a survivor, but if survival was the best he could boast of….

Windu pinched the bridge of his nose, imagined his fingers doing the same with the ache lurking at his temples and pushed the pain away, back into the Force. "Is the clone any more reliant than she is?"

Zey hesitated….Hesitated too long and they both knew it. "He has experience-"

Windu cut him off. "More than your Captain Maze?"

"The captain is an ARC," Zey reminded him. "Lieutenant Wren is a regular trooper."

"That would be ' _no_ ,' then." Windu's jaw muscles worked as he bit back a sigh. The Chancellor would not be pleased, but…. "Your captain and Agent Varrak will have to suffice. It seems we have no other option," he added darkly.

Zey nodded. His pinched mouth and tightly drawn Force-aura told Windu the man was not happy about the decision, but hadn't expected anything else. "As you say, Master Windu. About Commander Arhen-"

"Keep her out of it," Windu put in quickly. He thought of the little girl who'd pleaded to become his Padawan, then crumbled in the face of the reality of her request. _Bold, but unsteady...and dangerously unreliable._ "I don't want Commander Arhen involved in the Garqi mission. At _all._ Understood?"

"Perfectly." Zey gave a short bow, wincing as something in his back gave with a soft _pop_. "Too many hours behind a desk," he muttered, pushing into his back with his hands and straightening.

Against his will, Windu felt a smile threaten to curve his lips. "Perhaps you would benefit from a visit to Master Vokara Che, General Zey."

Zey shuddered. "With all due respect to our Master Healer, I would rather spend an hour with Skirata and his grievances. At least he can only cut me to shreds with that knife of his."

"Whatever helps you conquer that inbox, General. Now," he leaned back in his chair, feeling some of the tension leave the Chamber and his own body, "let us continue with the debrief. What is the status on those Separatist droid factories and the _phrik_ metal…"


	5. Hook, Line and Taken

**Author's Note:** An enormous stellar thanks to the amazing **laloga** , who gave me kind permission to torture one of her wonderful characters from _Fearless_. I hope I did her proud. Podger is and remains **laloga's** personal creative property, so no matter how tempting, unless you have her okay, _hands off_! Same rules apply for my own OCs.

Second, this chapter directly references characters and events from Karen Miller's series, _Star Wars: Gambit,_ and Karen Traviss' _RepCom_ series.

* * *

 **Chapter Five: Hook, Line and Taken**

 _"Chaos begun cannot be ordered so easily."_

 _-_ Grand Master Yoda

* * *

 _GAR Station Nerrif, Vilonis Sector, Mid Rim_

Not ten minutes into his assignment and CT-1122 was already bucket deep in bantha _poodoo_.

"Excuse me. Coming through. Make way."

With the compliments of two full battle cruisers currently in residence, the corridors of the station were _beyond_ crowded. Podger was practically getting a full body workout simply trying to shoulder his way past uniformed station personnel, ranking officers and battle-weary clone troopers. The latter two in particular required a complicated dance of deference and caution while the trooper tried to push past them with all due haste.

"Watch where're going, shiny!" one commando snapped, as Podger inadvertently bumped shoulders with the RC while trying to avoid stepping on a Nikto captain's toes. Flustered and starting to pop sweat, Podger attempted to salute both captain _and_ commando while backing away and trying to sidestep the RC, all in one motion. The result was no doubt the sloppiest salute he'd ever given since being decanted, but Podger had no time to try and do better.

"S-sorry, sir," he told the Nikto, before mumbling the same apology to the commando. Before either of the men could take umbrage with him, Podger caught sight of a flash of very pale blonde hair disappearing down a T-junction.

 _Kriff! There she is!_ Podger dove towards the junction, fighting against the stream of sentients as if they'd been Kaminoan waves. In his haste to follow his elusive target, he scattered a group of engineers, who protested loudly when he accidentally clipped one of them with his elbow.

"Fardles!" the engineer cursed, juggling frantically to keep a hold on whatever greasy engine part he was carrying.

"Sorry!" Podger called back. There was now a long smear of oily grease that marred the sleeve of his grey uniform tunic, but he had no time to worry about it. He rounded the junction at a frantic pace, skidding to avoid running straight into the chest of another quartet of commandos who were rounding the corner. Practically bouncing off the corridor wall, Podger ducked past the group and whipped his head around, searching.

No sign of the Jedi.

No. No. No! This could _not_ be happening!

Wiping a hand over his reddened face, Podger tried to gather his wits. He needed to figure out where she'd gone, _before_ Admiral Meldorne found out he'd lost their Jedi visitor. Otherwise… Podger groaned and braced his hands on his knees in an effort to catch his breath.

If Podger had needed proof that Jedi were indeed superior to clones, than this was it. He'd spent all morning chasing the commander across _three_ decks, which amounted to about twelve klicks at an all-out sprint. And she'd _still_ outpaced him.

If the admiral heard about this….

Podger really didn't want to think about what Admiral Meldorne would do to him if - _when_ \- he got wind of the trooper's failure. The admiral didn't suffer fools gladly and Podger was certain he'd just made himself the biggest fool this side of the Mid Rim.

How could he have _lost a Jedi_?

Shuddering at the possible consequences, Podger righted his cap and took another look at the corridor. They were far off the customary touring route he should have taken the commander on - on the admiral's insistence, no less. But Podger hadn't gotten around to more than showing her the officers' personal quarters before the commander had done a sudden about-face and raced off, leaving him behind, stunned and gaping before trying to catch up.

Where in the blazes would a Jedi commander even _want_ to go?

The corridor split off in almost a dozen different directions, most of them leading to restricted areas. _Restricted_ even to visiting Jedi officers.

Podger took off on a fast jog, glancing down each branching turn in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the Jedi. Sure, she was small, but she couldn't be _that_ hard to locate - not dressed as she was and certainly not with that _hair._

The corridor on his left led to one of the auxiliary hangar bays.

The one on the right was marked with red restriction lines and led straight to the outer ring of turbo lasers. _Please, please, please don't be_ there, _Commander..._

A laugh, light and full of impish good-humor, drifted past the steady hum of the air vents and the cadence of boots.

Podger braked hard and a signals officer trod on his heels in surprise.

"What's the matter with you, shiny?"

Podger ignored the question, the sweat suddenly chilly against his flushed face. The laugh had sounded from his _right_.

"Oh, no."

Gone was the worry of runaway Jedi; Admiral Meldorne's reaction to him losing their visitor.

The images dancing now before Podger's terrified eyes were of very large guns….and one very small Jedi.

"Oh, no, no, no," he repeated, taking off at top speed, boots clanking over the deckplates. "Commander Arhen! _Wait_!"

All he could think about was how there weren't even any _forms_ to fill out to explain a blown up Jedi.

* * *

Ear pressed to the door, the little Jedi waited until the last echoes of her name had died away, before poking her head out and scanning the corridor.

Startled troopers glanced at her, but there was no sign of her would-be tour guide and impromptu babysitter. He'd passed by her hidy-hole without a second gander.

Grinning in triumph, she gave the other two occupants of the room a mischievous wink.

"Thanks for sharing some space with a girl in need, fellas. It's been stellar."

Clapping one hand over her mouth to stifle the swell of giggles at the two troopers' befuddled, slack-jawed countenance, Roweena Arhen dashed out of the men's refresher, heading in the opposite direction Podger had just taken.

Not ten minutes into her stay on Nerrif, and she was already having mono loads tons of _fun_.

* * *

 _Count Dooku's Palace, Serenno, Outer Rim Territories_

Kneeling before the Sith's towering holo-image, Count Dooku bowed his head as he delivered the news. "Unfortunately, our troops on Garqi were unable to capture General Krell. He and his forces were able to retreat after sustaining considerable losses. Our own losses were….admissible."

Though the drawn hood hid much of the Sith Lord's face, Dooku could feel those piercing eyes narrow on him.

"Krell's capture would have proven fruitful to our cause. Did I not stress this fact sufficiently, my apprentice?"

Dooku bowed his head more deeply. "You did, Master. But Krell is a wily commander, and ruthless in his usage of his clone troops."

So ruthless, in fact, that Dooku wondered how the morally righteous Jedi could keep on condoning Krell's substantial losses during battles.

 _Of course, in times of war, victories count more than the deaths of a few thousand clones. Even Yoda must think so, or why else would he keep sending Jedi like Krell out into the field?_

It was not the first time Dooku had asked himself this question, but the hypocrisy never failed to astound him. How had it taken him so long to recognize the essential corruption of the Order?

It made little difference now. Count Dooku disliked reporting failure almost as much as his Master, Darth Sidious, disliked hearing of it. "Our droid commanders were, I fear, simply no match."

Sidious' hologram flickered slightly and Dooku felt the dark side tingle around him, tightening ever so slightly around his throat.

"A droid is only as good as its programmer," Sidious hissed.

"I agree, my lord. But a good organic commander is difficult to find these days." And he'd lost one of his most promising officers with Ventress' betrayal.

 _Say what you like about her intemperateness, but Ventress had talent as a field-commander._ Had it not been for her consistent failures in her fights against Skywalker and Kenobi, she might have remained a useful tool in his arsenal.

"Since Aragonar, the number of flesh and blood recruits to our forces have been visibly waning," Dooku said. " If I were to reroute some of the Jabiimi Nationalists to Garqi, we could-"

"No," Sidious cut across him harshly. "The Nimbus commandos must remain on Jabiim, for the time being. I have future plans for them."

Dooku did not ask to be enlightened about those plans. The Dark Lord was a master puppeteer, orchestrating events to his liking on a scale that far outmatched the Count's own comprehension, though the admission was a bitter rub against his pride. Sidious would tell him, in time, where to deploy the Nimbus commandos. In the meantime, there was still Garqi and a dozen other battlefields to consider.

"As you wish, my lord. Then allow me to deploy a special task force to capture General Krell-"

But Sidious interrupted once again. "As it happens, Krell is scheduled to return to Garqi within the next three rotations, and with a larger fleet - more than a dozen Star Destroyers."

It was not a surprising move on the part of the Republic. Garqi was not a resource-rich world, but it was an ideal launching-point for a larger assault on Separatist holdings in the Outer Rim Territories and now that they had secured for themselves Hutt-controlled hyperspace lanes, the Republic could expand its ever increasing network of supply lines.

 _All the Republic needs is a foothold._

Dooku wasn't about to give them one.

As if sensing his thoughts across the vast distance that separated Master and apprentice - and for all Dooku knew, that was the case - Sidious inclined his head ever so slightly. For a brief moment, Dooku could discern the gleam of the Sith Lord's eyes beneath the sheltering shadow of his hood.

"What are your plans, Lord Tyranus?"

A test. Such things were always a test under the Sith Lord and as yet, Dooku had never failed a single one. And he did not plan to do so now. His strategy for Garqi had already been set before he'd initiated his call to his Master. Like the Count, Darth Sidious appreciated preparedness.

"I would suggest sending Grievous to meet Krell at Garqi, my lord. The good general is eager to face another Jedi after their infiltration of his Vassek moon base. He will no doubt prove a worthy match against Krell."

"Indeed." The Sith Lord actually appeared pleased by the idea, long fingers tenting together as a quick smile rippled across his half-seen features. "Ensure that Grievous is sufficiently equipped with droids and ships, Lord Tyranus. Let Krell see the true depth and power of the dark side, and he's sure to drown in it."

So that was why Sidious had insisted Krell be captured.

 _He wants to turn Krell, as Sora Bulq was turned._

No, Dooku corrected himself, not _turned,_ but enlightened; opened to the truth of the Jedi's easy biases regarding light and dark, as he had been - through bitter experience.

And for just a second, Dooku saw once more the snowcapped wasteland of Galidraan, drifts of snow barely concealing the stiffening bodies of Jedi and Mandalorians alike.

 _What have we done?_

"What of the _other_ matter on Garqi?" Sidious asked.

Jerked from his reminiscence, Dooku looked up to meet his Master's hooded gaze and, mindful of his creaking bones, rose to his feet. Age had its advantages, and Dooku was rarely required to bow like a lowly youngling to the Sith, but courtesy was as much a part of him as a healthy sense of caution and he affected a bow before answering.

"Confirmation reached our listening post at the edge of the Cassandran sector mere hours ago, my lord. My agent has successfully infiltrated Pesktda, right under the Jedi's nose."

Sidious' thin lips twisted to a sneer that might have been a smile. "As so much happens these days."

Dooku's answer was another bow.

"Then he has located his objective."

It was not a question. When Darth Sidious gave an order, he expected it to be followed - Dooku's answer reflected that he shared this attitude. "My agent would not have dared risk communications otherwise. If not out of fear of repercussions, then out of pure, base pride."

"Naturally. And the retrieval?"

"I am dispatching Savage Opress along with Grievous' fleet, with orders to secure our agent's safe return."

"Savage Opress." Sidious' velveteen voice seemed to caress the syllables of the name thoughtfully. "The newest animal in your menagerie of failed servants. Is he ready?"

A loaded question and he treaded carefully in his answer. "He is, as you've stated, an animal, my lord. A brute, but capable of overcoming any possible opposition he might encounter. His performance on Devaron has convinced me of it."

Sidious turned his head slightly to the side, the holo flickering and Dooku felt his words being considered, weighed - ready to be discarded.

"Very well, Lord Tyranus. But see to it that your new assassin functions more _efficiently_ than your last." The dark hood with its shadowed face turned to him and the power behind that gaze, even across lightyears was breathtaking. Lord Sidious was the embodiment of the Sith's long patience, as well their incessant hunger. "See to it that the Waste remains in Separatist hands, my apprentice, lest you suffer the consequences of failure."

Pressure once more against his throat; just enough to call up an image of bony fingers settling around his windpipe, the touch almost a gentle caress and utterly a deadly promise. A light misting of sweat gathered on the elderly Count's brow.

There was only one answer he could give.

Bowing deeply, Dooku averted his eyes to the polished marble floor. "It shall be done as you command, Lord Sidious."

"Indeed." And with that, the holo cut out, leaving the Count in the shadows of his palace.

* * *

 _Meanwhile….._

Ro slowed to a casual stroll, glancing back over her shoulder once to confirm that she had indeed lost her escort.

She sighed dramatically, before flipping her long, platinum blonde hair over one shoulder. For this latest jaunt, she'd dyed her unruly bangs a deep emerald green - certainly the tamest dye-job she'd had in oodles of rotations - and the color set off the bright teal of her eyes. Not to mention it provided a pretty green edge to her rather drab surroundings, whenever she peered through the thick curtain of her hair.

But goodly gooey crumblebuns, did the GAR order all their toys in monochromatic bulk? So far, the only bits of coloring she'd espied were the daubs of paint on clone trooper armor. Nifty and all that jazz, but Ro made a mental note to gift-give a color palette to every tier-ranking brass officer this Midwinter. Mayhaps some higher-up gentlebeing could finally rally some delish shades of multitudinal brightlings to happy these stations up a tad.

Too mono _bombad-bad_ that she'd had to shake her tiddlywinks of the trooper.

Wren could grumble to his heart's content, but Ro _liked_ shinies and Podger was just a week shy from being fresh off the Kamino transport. She loved getting the first crack at anything new and shiny, before the war started to rub off that gleaming patina of naivete and idealism. Not that she didn't enjoy Wren's jade-cutted cynicism, but a change was as good as an illicit affair. And Podger was certainly easy on the eyes. Tall, dark and devilish-delish handsome, all the clones were an eye-candy hitparade, but she had a softspot for the small percentage of blushing, flustered armored lads, of which Podger was definitely a digit. All fun and giggles, naturally, which made it all the more regrettable that she'd had to cut him from her sidestrings…..

Ro stopped abruptly, blinking as she glanced about the barren corridor.

"Now, _where_ was I heading?" She'd gotten so lost in her current train of thought, that she'd completely lost sight of her original mag-lev track.

Ignoring the bemused looks shot her way by clone personnel busily hurrying along assignments, Ro took a moment to slowly turn in place, one finger tapping thoughtfully against her bottom lip.

Though numerous sentients across the chartered galaxy would deny the possibility, there _was_ a method to Ro's peculiar brand of madness. Most days, anyways. While she was more than capable of causing mayhem for the sheer giggles of it, losing her erstwhile tour guide was all course par.

She needed to hunt down her quarry without dragging along a hapless witness.

"Teeny, meeny, mo," she mused to herself, studying the different turns this corridor took. "Where's your little hidey-hole?"

The problem with space stations was that they were crowded, literally as well as Force-wise; even on a station the size of Nerrif - with a circumference equivalent to that of a small moon - bodies and their accompanying emotions pressed against her like a dense fog, making it difficult to navigate without being misled in the maze of corridors.

It didn't help that she was trying to single out one gorm-worm in a wiggling full can of the little beasties, all identical except for minute differences many sentients didn't care to acknowledge.

Ah, but moral dilemmas were best left to be debated when she was back with her fellow Altisians. For now, she had a bone to pick with one specific gorm-worm and a busy station wasn't about to deter Ro.

Unlike many of her fellow Jedi, Ro was well-used to having to rely on more than the Force. She couldn't wave her hand and fuddle a being's mind; couldn't leap tall anythings in a single bound, open sticky jars with a determined glance or blur herself to invisibility. No, once Ro's limited supply of single-usage Force-tricks ran out, she needed to rely on her smarts and leaps of intuition.

And though Jedi might not believe in luck, it was lucky that those two traits, unlike the Force, were something she had in spades.

Eyes narrowing, Ro blocked off the stream of emotions feeding into her mind via the Force, concentrating instead on her physical surroundings. She didn't have a personal item to help her focus on her quarry, so she needed to approach her search from a different angle: old fashioned deduction.

He wouldn't want to draw too much attention to himself, but on a GAR station, he couldn't afford to come in under the radar either. He was still, technically, on friendly grounds, so there was no reason for him not to take advantage of the resources on Nerrif and stock up while it was safe. Enemy territory wasn't known for its lines of free goodies to passing soldiers from the other side. So he'd need to blend in, chuck off what made him special in an ocean of men who shared his face and genes and become one of them.

The big wrinkle in that was, of course, that he _wasn't_ one of them and _didn't_ want to be one of them. He was special and speciality didn't scrub off easily.

Ro stopped abruptly in her slow circling, the smile curving her generous mouth and washing her face of that momentary semblance to someone….older, wiser, more….. _Jedi._

She knew just the place to look.

Folding her hands behind her back, Ro began to sing softly to herself as she skipped through the corridor. Every skip a skip closer to her objective.

Wouldn't he be surprised?

The thought turned the bright smile on her face to an impish grin.

* * *

 _Auxiliary Hangar Bay 9, J-deck_

There really wasn't much to distinguish one clone from another.

You could change the hair, add a few scars, alter facial hair, decorate the armor, but at the end of the day, the features remained the same - unless a droid got lucky just as yours ran out and something more telling got lost in the process. Height, weight; it all added to the equation that in the sum of their parts, clones were as interchangeable as the same type of model of droid.

It took a keen - _very_ keen - eye to distinguish the little differences that denoted individuality in a sea of sameness and the fact that most sentients either lacked this skill or simply did not care to cultivate it, was both demeaning and highly useful.

The trooper striding across the hangar was one clone who was capitalizing on the "an army of one man" mindset - the clone troopers' infamous motto.

He _wanted_ to disappear in the crowd of brothers to avoid questions and unnecessary attention.

So far, it was working, because he was doing a good job of passing himself off as a regular grunt.

Only the aforementioned keen eye would notice that his back was a little _too_ straight, as if an invisible weight were pulling on his hips. He surveyed the hangar bay casually as he approached a small, non-descript freighter, but the edge of his chin was raised just a tad _too_ high, as if used to clearing the edge of a pauldron.

And the walk. _That_ walk.

The trooper's steps were confident, filled with purpose and came down easily on the balls of his polished boots - a typical soldier on assignment, ready for action at a moment's notice. It was only the faint hint of a customary swagger that might have drawn an amused glance from knowing eyes.

So far, the trooper had no idea that his cover was already blown.

The freighter was the GAR's standard lumbering dirt-crate, non-descript and functional - so long as you didn't ask too much of the engines - and the groan of protest and noisy creakings of hydraulics as the passenger ramp disengaged echoed through the entire hangar. When the ramp came to an abrupt, steaming, clanking halt, several snickers could be heard from nearby technicians.

There was a soft sigh, almost lost in the clamor of the rest of the hangar, before the trooper clambered onto the elevated ramp; boots _thunking_ on durasteel and armor scraping against edges.

But for all his noisy entrance, his advance _into_ the ship was commendably stealthy.

Not much larger than an _Eta-_ class shuttle, the freighter consisted of a tiny cargo hold, barely large enough to contain supplies for a standard week, a galley that also contained three slim bunks recessed into the wall and a cramped cockpit. Still plenty of room to stub one's toes, even in plastoid boots, yet the trooper refrained from turning on the lights.

His steps as he advanced through the ship were light, despite the armor, only the barest vibration against the deckplates.

Three steps away from the open cockpit hatch, he pulled the blaster from its holster with a whisper of plastoid against cured leather. The _snap_ as the safety was disengaged cracked through the dark ship like a whip.

"Show yourself," he growled, the outer mic of the helmet giving his voice a hollow echo.

Laughing, Ro turned the pilot's chair about to face the trooper. The bright fluorescents of the hangar bay fell through the viewport, no doubt backlighting her dancing eyes and broad smile.

"How'd you know I was aboard sneaking? Uhhh," her eyes opened wide in delight, "gnarly clone mojo? Can you guess the digit of my thinks, _Sergeant Dodger_? Bit of a fall from the brass heights for you, ain't it?" she added, pointedly taking in the very ordinary trooper armor he was wearing.

" _You_ -" Whatever else he'd wanted to say was quickly bit off. With a sweep of one gauntleted hand, ARC Captain Maze pulled the helmet off his head to glower at his unwanted guest. He did not, however, holster his blaster just yet.

Far from being intimidated, Ro's smile only widened at the obvious threat-display. Clicking her tongue - a habit she'd picked up from her brother - Ro playfully cocked her head to the side, half-lowering her long lashes at the startled ARC. "Now, is that anyways of meeting-greeting a lady of the female persuasion? Where's that smile that makes me wanna go all puddly-goo? I'm all a-slather from watching you swagger-gait 'cross the hangar all secretly like. Mono prime kinky."

Maze closed his eyes and let out a frustrated hiss of air, sounding much like the creaky hydraulics of the ship as he tried to reign in his surprise and annoyance. "Commander Arhen." When he opened his eyes again, he was back in full control of himself, though his honey-brown eyes were narrowed as he studied her. "It was my understanding that you were on Tatooine."

Not a direct question, but not exactly _not_ a demand for answers either. Ro quirked a brow, as always delighted at having managed to ruffle Maze's dander. Known as the _iceberg_ back at SpecOps HQ, the ARC captain was a man renowned for his control and Ro had taken it upon herself to fluster each and every one of his well-hidden buttons - just because.

She also noted the quick once-over he gave her, taking in the light blue pants, the pink tunic that reached down her thighs and the crimson bantha leather jacket that hid the twin lightsabers hooked to her belt. Coupled with the knee-high purple boots, she looked more like every other civvy spacer that happened to dock on Nerrif in hopes of a quick cargo run and _not_ like someone who'd just crawled out of the Dune Sea.

It paid to shower and dress for the occasion.

"I _was_ on Tatooine," she assured him cheerfully, flicking on the ship's light with a casual sweep of her fingers across the freighter's control board. Maze blinked rapidly as the lights came on, but kept his hard gaze on Ro with a predator's practiced focus. A grenade could have gone off in his starched shorts, she knew, and he wouldn't have let his target out of his sights. A little something-something Maze had in common with Ro's own clone partner, Wren. And, oh, that list of similarities was growing longer by the passing cycle.

"And now I'm here," she concluded, flashing the ARC a coy smile. "With you. Ain't that a stellar coinkidink? But shhhh." She put one finger to her lips and winked. "I haven't filed the flimsies yet, so far as the trinity of Zey, GAR and bureaucracy is concerned, I'm still shaking sand out of my lacy unmentionables."

Predictably, he ignored her slightly flirtatious humor in favor of clipping his helmet to his belt.

"Commander Arhen."

Both of Ro's eyebrows rose to her hairline at the shift in Maze's tone. From sounding like a soldier about to blast her brains out, he'd gone to sounding like a put-upon mother nuna.

"That's me, all set and pretty."

Again, he totally ignored her.

"If you've completed your assignment on Tatooine, you should be reporting back to General Zey. On Coruscant," he added, after a pregnant pause.

"But I'd _much rather_ bother you." She turned on the charm, not because she believed it would actually affect Maze, but because by being flirty, he would disregard the truth in the statement: she _loved_ bugging Maze. Not quite as fun as getting a rise out of Wren - because Wren would actually _retaliate,_ which would more often than not devolve into hours of mono prime stellar entertainment - but still a challenge to tickle her toesies.

And it never failed to work. For a man trained to be the best of the best of the best, it was amazing the things that went right over Maze's head.

"It's SOP, Commander," Maze insisted. "I do believe you _were_ briefed on those."

Ro sighed, leaning her chin against the palm of one hand. "You're oodles less fun than you ought to be, Maze. When's the last time you got laid?"

The barest hint of a flush crept up Maze's neck at her innocently asked question. In the Force, the cool blues and whites, so much like the glacier he was said to be, warmed with the beginning of a pink tinge as _embarrassment_ crept into his usual grumpy reserve.

"Commander…."

"Cookie's always mono loads more lackadaisical after some sheet-twisting exercises," she went on blithely. "Personal pet theory of myself and I is that the pressure just tends to build up between the legs and redirects the blood flow to the brain until finally _something's_ just gotta pop the scampweasel…."

" _Commander_ Arhen."

She blinked up at him, honey-sweet smile in place. "Yes?"

The ARC captain drew a shaky hand over his face, trying to knit his composure back together for the second time in as many minutes. It was a common effect Ro had on people.

Maze finally bit out the most important question. "How did you know where to find me?" He stared at her from beneath furrowed brows, barely managing to take the edge off a full-fledged glare. He was clearly trying to remember that she _was_ a Jedi and technically outranked him - though that fact rarely stopped an ARC from telling an officer just where to stick their brass, in varying degrees of diplomacy. "This mission - my location - it's highly classified."

"It _is,_ " she assured him, all wide-eyed shock that he would even suggest anything but total secrecy. "I didn't drop a single lingo after wrangling you out." She laughed at the _frustration_ that flashed across his face and Force-aura, playfully twirling the pilot's chair back and forth. Beneath her impish good-humor, however, she was watching the captain carefully.

Maze wasn't an easy man to read in the Force. His Force-aura was dominated by a combination of light blue _surliness_ and hard-edged _readiness_ that was bound together by a thick veneer of _patience_ that was beginning to crack under the continuous strain of _not_ being on the frontlines, of being stuck shuffling flimsies with a Jedi who swung his stylus more than his lightsaber these days. Her mind translated these impressions to the touch, sight and smell of a glacier, slowly grinding its way across the fabric of the Force, acquiring tears and rifts and slowly being melted down by the continued barrage of chaos that the Clone Wars were wreaking upon the galaxy. Beneath all of that, his innermost emotions were little more than bits of colored light refracted through thick layers of ice - difficult to see and identify.

If she hadn't been so dead determinately-serious about the matter, she almost - _almost_ \- would have felt sorry for what she was about to do. But nice _cheekas_ always finished last and Ro was done playing step-in viol in an orchestra that needed every Force-string.

"How did you find me?" Maze reiterated.

This time, Ro rolled her eyes. "For realspace? Setting aside that I don't name the birdies in my coop, you didn't really believe everyone would fail to note the big Maze-shaped empty spot next to Zey, right? You run off to Wild Space and inquiring minds want to know the whys and thereofs."

He relaxed a little at her mention of Wild Space - not much, but enough for her to register the slightest creak of a give in the ice that marked his Force-aura. A surefire sign that he wasn't heading anywhere _near_ Wild Space, but he thought that she thought he was and that gave him the illusion of the upper hand.

Ro leaned further back into the chair, steepling her fingers in her best I-am-Windu-tremble-at-the-glare-of-my-shiny-head imitation, all-around pleased with her little ploy. One more piece in the puzzle and Maze had no clue he'd given it to her.

"My mission is classified, Commander," Maze told her sternly. "Should General Zey feel you should be informed, I'm sure he will do so once you return to Coruscant."

"Naughty, naughty," Ro said, waving an admonishing finger at the ARC. "It's no good manner play to lie to a nice little fem such as my cuteness. You, yourself and I know perfectly well Zey won't do warra nuts but pat my head and send Wren and me on another blue milk run."

He was back to being uncomfortable. Maze's expression never faltered, but the slight changes in his Force-aura told Ro as much. He didn't want to have this conversation with her and not just because he should be prepping the ship for a top-secret, hush-hush mission. Ro'd always been aware that she made most mainstream Jedi uncomfortable - it was the mark of the relationship between the Order and the Altisian sect - and some of Zey's own unease in regards to her had obviously rubbed off on Maze. She _didn't_ act like the other Jedi working under Zey and in the three months she'd been with the Special Operations Brigade, Ro had proven just how far she was willing to _not_ play by the GAR's rules. The problem, as a much amused Wren had once pointed out to her, was that she was totally unpredictable in her rebellion. As a marked maverick, Wren was a sore spot to his superiors, but trouble was to be expected at every turn with him. It was something men like Zey and Maze could deal with, though they didn't like it. Ro, on the other hand, never reacted the same way twice, nor broke the same rules on every given occasion. One minute she'd be playing along with the Republic's wishes and the next she was stepping on every toe that came her way, just to see how high they'd jump. For someone like Maze, who'd been trained to deal with live ordnance, that made her a malfunctioning det and he tended to treat her accordingly with care and suspicion.

At the moment, for example, his finely tuned soldier's paranoia was obviously sensing a trap and Ro could practically see the repulsors grind as he tried to maneuver through the minefield of her accusation.

"We hardly have the resources to send agents on useless missions, Commander. Your feelings to the contrary, these 'blue milk runs' are critical to the war effort and need to be accomplished."

"Absotively." Her agreement threw him for a momentary loop and Ro pounced on the opening. "A'course, gotta wonder if Jedi whammy's the called for track when sniffing snagged war booty on the black market."

Maze finally holstered his blaster, clasping his hands behind his back as he regarded the slender Jedi. "Senator Orn Free Taa was quite vocal in his praise for having his people's national treasures returned."

"And every gentlebeing with half a touch for the fringe could have tracked down those bits of pretty," Ro replied. "Same tag for our little hyperspace jump to Tatooine. Zey doesn't need a Jedi and clone trooper to tell him there's no hidey Sep base in the endless desert. Anyone with a Hutt-sized comb and working set of peepers could have gotten those results...Correct, Agent Varrak?"

Without completely letting her out of his line of sight, Maze jerked his head to the side as a soft gasp betrayed the present of his traveling companion.

SOB Agent Varrak was still half-submerged in the shadows of the entry way, but the muzzle of her blaster gleamed in the ship's lights.

"How do you know that name?" she demanded, weapon still fixed on Ro; the woman obviously hadn't noticed Ro's lightsabers. That, or she didn't consider Jedi credentials enough for a friendship label.

For her part, Ro merely blew out a long breath. "Aren't we all with the questions today? I could tear you to boredom with the nitty details, but espying as we've all got places to jet, suffice to say that I am a Jedi." She wiggled her fingers at the agent, screwing her face up into a parody of threat. "Hear me be mystical. Grrrrr."

Whatever the agent had expected, that hadn't been it, and Ro couldn't help the laugh bubbling up inside of her as the woman's total _confoundment_ flooded the small space.

Maze cleared his throat and, taking one step backwards, gripped the muzzle of Varrak's blaster and forced it to point to the ground. The agent threw him a furious look - no love lost between those two - but complied.

"This is Jedi Commander Roweena Arhen." Maze inclined his head towards Ro, who flashed another toothy grin at the enraged agent. "She seems to be, ehm, interested in our current affair."

"Affair?" Ro perked up at the word, casting a sly glance at the two Humans. "Taking a little nookie for the long road? Maze, I totally underestimated you and hereby take back all the prudish things I spread behind your back."

She was rewarded with two sets of impressive glares.

"What is the meaning of this?" Varrak demanded, turning to Maze for answers, rather than Ro. "I was assured by my superiors that security wouldn't be breached."

"Nothing has been breached," Maze shot back.

"Pity," Ro muttered.

"Commander Arhen is overstepping her bounds," the ARC captain went on. "She will be returning to Coruscant, along with her partner."

"Partner?" At this, Varrak surveyed the cramped confines of the freighter, as if expecting another mad Jedi to jump out at her from the shadows.

Before Maze could answer, Ro jumped in. "A deluxe dish of a specimen, currently undertaking several manly duties whilst I'm securing prime-time adventuring for entertainment all around. War's been kind of lacking in the buzz department for this dynamic duo." She slid gracefully off the pilot's chair, approaching Maze with a hand outstretched, expectantly.

"My proposition, from gentleman to gentlefem. My birdies sing of a black ops song in the making, with you as spotlight figure and mono prime action in the plot. Hand over the secretly goodies and no one gets hurt."

Her day was never complete until she reduced some poor sentient to the state of sputtering incoherency. Today, she got two for the effort of one.

"You want-"

"Are you _mad_?"

Varrak and Maze gaped at her.

"You're here because you want to…." Maze shook his head in incredulity. "You want to _take over_ this mission?"

"Score in one," she said, grinning at them both. "Cookie's been getting _bombad_ bored. Can't say I wouldn't mind a wee change in pace myself."

"Ridiculous," Varrak muttered under her breath, holstering her blaster before throwing a frustrated look first at Maze, then at Ro. "This is a delicate operation, _Commander_. It requires the touch of a professional - something you Jedi are lacking."

Ro quirked an amused eyebrow at the woman. "Like on Lanteeb?" she chirped.

Varrak's sharply angled face flushed. "How did you know about that?"

Ro threw her head back and laughed, the long curtain of her hair shaking with the motion. "Ya know," she told Varrak with a wink, "some pretty smart thinkers tend to contend that doing the same thing on constant repeater mode and expecting different results is the first sign of insanity. Don't think asking the same questions over and over is that much further down on the variation line."

"Commander," Maze stepped in, smoothly and unafraid of the growing tension between the two women, "this is highly irregular and I cannot condone it."

She whirled on him then, the smile on her face momentarily taking on a sharper, calculating edge that she quickly covered with all the sweetness she could muster. Leaning in close to the tall clone, Ro playfully hooked her fingers into his belt. Too startled by her forwardness, Maze didn't step back, even as she further closed the distance between them.

"Pwetty pwease," she cooed, fluttering her long lashes up at him. "With extra frill syrup and sprinkles on top? Be a gent and share with the lady-Jedi."

The Force around him shuddered with the barest trickle of _panic_ at her close proximity, melting some of his cool surliness.

Eyes fixed on her face, the ARC captain tried to regain some space between them, only for Ro to match his movements.

"Do you even _know_ what you're asking?" he finally ground out."

"Demanding, ignorant little saber-jockey," Varrak muttered.

Ro tilted her head slightly to regard the woman, fingers still tangled with Maze's utility belt. The coy smile was still in place - only someone who knew her well would have been able to see the sharp edges behind the smile and the darkening of her eyes.

"Ye of little regard and manners, I know half more than half of what you'd like, and understand half as less than half of what you should."

While the agent tried to digest _that,_ Ro turned all of her beaming attention back to Maze. "Last chance, captain, oh grumpy captain."

Maze was turning the most _interesting_ shade of red, but he stood his ground, even trying to swivel his pelvis to a less intimate angle. Ro just leaned in all the closer.

"You are not authorized to partake in this mission, Commander." Aside from a slight strain, his voice was perfect ice. "It would be best for all concerned if you returned to Coruscant."

And just like that, Ro dropped the goo-goo eyes and with a casual shrug, disentangled herself from Maze.

"Alrighty 'kay. If that's how you wanna play."

Both agents stared at her, thrown by her sudden shift in mood.

"That's it?" Varrak asked, suspiciously. "You went through all this trouble to track us down, break into the ship and you're just giving up….because he said ' _no_.'" She waved dismissively towards Maze, who narrowed his eyes at the agent.

Oh, boyo. Nope, definitely little empathy brewing between those two. Listening to the Force crackle and groan between them, Ro figured they'd end the trip either in deathly silence or rolling around on one of those narrow bunks.

 _Well, whatever gets your blood roiling in the wee morning hours._ Everyone was entitled to their little walk of shame.

Ro turned politely towards Varrak, shrugging once more as she headed back towards the freighter's ramp. "Think everyone's here made their feelings quite clear about my buckateering this mission. Seems the honorable thing for me to do is bow out gracefully."

She paused just at the edge of the ramp, twining her thin Padawan braid thoughtfully around her little finger. "On second think…." With the grace of a bird taking flight, Ro twirled about, flashing the little datacard she'd stolen from Maze's belt pouch between long fingers. "Where's the fun in that?"

Reflexively, Maze's hand went to the pouch that had contained the datacard. Varrak was just a tad faster.

The female agent threw herself at Ro, hand outstretched to snatch the datacard back. Ro laughed and ducked beneath the woman, giving her a little shove to send her back into the ship. "And on that note," she said, giving the two of them a wave, "I'll take my leave." With that, she let her feet slip over the half-descended ramp. Tucking herself into a small ball, Ro allowed herself to fall, taking the impact against the deck plates on her shoulder and rolling a bare meter before she was back on her feet.

She took off running, glancing back once to see Varrak hot on her tail, while Maze ducked back into the ship, no doubt trying to warm up the engines. Ro snorted and slid beneath the folded wings of a Y-fighter.

Mono prime luck with that order. She'd jimmied the freighter's engines long before Maze had returned to the auxiliary bay. That dirt-crate wasn't going no place.

"Stop her!" Varrak yelled and several of the hangar bay crew turned to see what the commotion was about.

Ro threw back the edges of her jacket, revealing her lightsabers to the clones and pointed back at the rapidly approaching Varrak. "Stop _her_."

Varrak never had a chance. Three of the clones dropped their tools and closed in on the fuming agent with the fine precision of a pack of hunting anooba.

Ro chortled at the utterly _stunned fury_ that rose in thick swathes from Varrak as the clones detained her.

Still laughing, Ro raced outside of the auxiliary hangar bay, palming the airlock as she did so. The hatch cycled shut and with a devious grin, Ro pried open the lock box and pulled several of the wires. Sparks flew and crackled as a small light turned from green to red, showing that the emergency override codes had engaged. No one was going to be opening this hatch, not from the hangar bay at least, anytime soon. Not without several pieces of heavy ordnance, anyway.

And by the time the tech crews had lifted the problem and Maze and Varrak had organized new transportation, she and Wren would be parsecs along this top-secret mission of theirs. She had to remember to thank Callista for the tip about Maze's absence from Coruscant. Anything that could move him from Zey's side would be more than worth the gander.

 _"Do you even understand what's at stake?"_ the agent shouted after her.

Ro fingered the datacard, the smile slipping off her face. Had the corridor not been deserted, a casual passerby might have seen a rare sight indeed - Ro's face, devoid of her usual laughter and cheer.

"You have no idea, Agent Varrak," she whispered to the bulkheads. "None." Her fingers clenched around the datacard.

Now, time to find her partner and share the good news. And maybe recollect her tour guide while she was at it. You never could be surrounded by enough eye-candy.

The thought brought the smile back to her face. Walking the datacard across her knuckles, Ro began to hum as she skipped along the corridors, ignoring the furious pounding of fists against the locked hatch behind her.


	6. Kickstart

**Author's Note:** Once more and for the record: Podger is the sole creative property of **laloga.** I'm sure you're just as jealous of that fact as I am. For more of this delightful character, and just an awesome read all-around, check out _Fearless._

* * *

 **Chapter Six: Kickstart**

" _Never be unreachable - in every sense of the word."_

 _-_ Rule # 16 of The Partnership Agreement

* * *

 _At the same time…._

The wardroom was generally the uncontested territory of the mongrel officers, so Wren's appearance sent a hush through the small gathering at bar and booths. Eyes narrowed, they were seizing him up, these soft civvies in soldiers' disguise, from the top of his brutally short dark hair to the tips of his scuffed, scarred boots; this _clone_ who'd dared step foot where no clone had gone before.

Wren met their contempt, their confusion and irritation, with a careless smirk, the scar at the right corner of his mouth lending a trace of insolent arrogance to the expression. He didn't give a flying fek about them, their opinions or offended sensibilities. He was here for one reason and one reason only: to get thoroughly drunk.

The back of his neck tingled as he made his way to the bar - he was being watched - but so far, no one made a move to try and evict Wren from the premises.

It was the armor, most like. His kit made him stand out, even amongst the ocean of clones; the paintjob, the mods, it all screamed " _dangerous_." His attitude no doubt enforced that quiet message; each movement suggested a predator's hungry stalk.

Keeping one wall at his side, he took up station at the end of the bar. He slammed his gauntleted hand onto the bartop to get the bartender's attention, making the two officers to his right jump. He answered their affronted glares with a sneer.

The 'bartender' as it turned out, was a droid, shiny and vaguely humanoid. Wren hated the thing on sight; he'd been around entirely too many droids as of late, and all of them off-limits to his blaster.

"How may I be-"

"Menkooro whiskey," Wren snapped; the clanker's voice had that unctuous undertone so common to service droids and it grated on his nerves past the point of sufferance. "And keep 'em the kriff coming, tinnie."

"Right away, sir."

The droid trundled off on a single, treadless wheel, to be replaced by a strutting mongrel officer.

"Mind keeping a civil tongue, clone?"

Wren's gaze roamed lazily over the _shik_ , taking note of the perfectly manicured hair and nails, the crisply pressed creases of his blue-grey uniform and the proudly displayed COMPOR pin above a 2nd lieutenant's insignia.

 _Commission for the Protection of the Republic._

The scarred corner of his mouth curled in disdain. Wren'd met this type of barve before, most recently on Dantooine, and hadn't been impressed. COMPOR talked big, but he'd yet to see a single one of them dirty their soft mongrel hands with plasma or blood.

He cracked the knuckles of one hand, idly flashing the crimson tally marks that marched their way up from his vambrace all the way to his spaulder.

"Matter of fact, I effing do."

A clone - fek, _any_ battle-experienced soldier - would have taken one look at the tally marks, marked the expression in Wren's eyes and backed the kriff off. But this louie wasn't getting the message, just as he seemed oblivious to the vertical pair of blue lines etched on the side of the helmet clipped to Wren's belt, marking him as a lieutenant 1st class and the mongrel's superior.

 _In every sense of the word._

"Then I suggest you clear the premises, _clone_. The wardroom's for civilized company, and certainly not _your_ kind." The louie flashed a quick, knowing smile towards a mixed group of officers, who were watching the building confrontation avidly, as if to confirm that he'd be right back after taking out the trash.

 _Kark_ _should keep his eyes on his opponent,_ Wren observed, feeling mildly insulted.

No battlefield virgin could ever understand the hazards of tangling with a man going through frontline withdrawal. Wren was going to educated the mongrel on the sharper points of life.

The droid was back, depositing a glass half-filled with red-colored whiskey by Wren, before it quickly wheeled away again, as if afraid of getting caught in the crossfire.

Wren downed the shot in a single swallow, savoring the burn of the whiskey down his throat and into his belly, where it mixed with the seething flames of his frustrations and anger.

"Did you hear me, clone?" The _shik_ moved closer, smile gone now to be replaced by a frown. He was risking losing face in front of his buddies, two of which were quite attractive females; most of the group was smirking. The louie leaned towards Wren, one hand on the bar's counter. "I said-"

The dead blade was in Wren's hand one moment and embedded in the bar's counter the next, hilt quivering just over the mongrel's hand.

The silence that followed was profound, practically alive.

It was Wren's turn to lean forward, until he could see himself reflected in the _shik's_ saucer-sized, shocked eyes and smell the fear - as acrid and sour a scent as if the louie had pissed himself.

"Want to kriffing try booting me out, _mongrel_?" He caressed the word, infusing it with every ounce of insolent scorn he possessed - which was quite a bit. The right side of his lips peeled back slightly to reveal a gleam of white teeth, the scar that stretched from his mouth up to his cheek lending the expression the appearance of a half-smile, without a single trace of humor. "I'd _love_ to see you fekking try."

The louie's eyes dropped from Wren's face, down to the blade sticking in-between his fingers. A dead blade was just a sharpened piece of metal; no fancy electronics like on vibroblades. Wren knew the cold kiss of that metal intimately and reveled in the shiver that shook the mongrel at the dead blade's touch. Tentatively, _fearfully,_ the _shik_ fanned his fingers and sagged in relief as he realized the blade hadn't gone through flesh, but through the thin space between his index and middle finger.

When he met Wren's eyes once more, there was a heady mix of fear, embarrassment and fury on the mongrel's face.

Good.

Wren retrieved the dead blade, flipping the knife end-over-end to balance it easily on one finger, an open invitation for the louie to grab the knife and take a stab at regaining his dignity - no pun intended.

The entire wardroom seemed to hold its breath as the knife remained between the two of them, balanced on an edge. The louie's kriffing buddies had lost their smirks and gone as pale as tauntauns as soon as sharp steel had entered the equation. But no one made to intervene.

 _Take it,_ Wren silently egged the mongrel on. _Kriffing take it; give me the fraggin' excuse I need to effing gut you like a vaping gooberfish._

But the louie didn't make a grab for the knife. Rather, his fury drained away to reveal real fear as it finally dawned on the _shik_ just what kind of animal he'd challenged - and how badly outmatched he was.

The louie snatched his hands back, trying to cover his retreat with false bluster - but retreat he did.

"I won't lower myself to brawling like a street thug, clone."

The half-smile that was no smile at all was still on Wren's face, though his hopes for a quick distraction were rapidly diminishing with every backward step the _shik_ took. "Then lets take this nerf-and-Wookie-show to the gym, mongrel. Makes no damned never-mind to me where I wipe the floor with you."

A clone might have stepped up to the challenge, but the mongrel just kept right on retreating, hands slightly raised as if to fend off an attack. "You're going on report, clone," the _shik_ spluttered. "I'll see you court-martialled for this."

The smile slipped off Wren's face. "Be sure to deliver the orders personally, vac-head. I'll be waiting for you - on the frontlines."

Behind them, someone snickered - _that_ broke the last of the louie's resolve. Almost stumbling over his own feet, the chuff-sucker ran back to his buddies, where he was greeted with a sympathy and, in the case of one particularly pretty female, growing disdain.

Wren watched him go, disappointed and feeling bitter about it.

The louie would have given him a fight - for about three seconds - and he'd actually been looking forward to it.

Fierfek, that was pathetic.

The bartender droid returned. It had obviously taken the measure of its newest customer, because instead of refilling his glass, the clanker dropped the entire bottle of Menkooro whiskey at Wren's elbow.

"On the house, sir."

Wren snatched the bottle and filled the glass to the brim, but did not drink. He'd downed the first shot, but decided to nurse the second, as he could still feel eyes on him and the atmosphere had taken on a decidedly wary edge, bordering on the hostile. He clearly hadn't made himself the wardroom's darling. Under those circumstances, it wouldn't do to lower his guard by getting drunk, as he'd initially planned.

He felt transported back in time, to Gaftikar - it wasn't a pleasant trip down memory lane. Then, as now, he'd roamed the cantinas in hopes of cheap booze, company and thrills, all in a bid to fill the empty hours with the adrenaline high that would leave him to roll numb and exhausted into his bunk at the end of the day. Most clones talked with longing about free time and leisure, but not Wren. Too many quiet hours meant too much time to think and remember and before too long, he'd be staring at the wrong end of his Deece, wondering if Thrush had felt the cool press of that black mouth against his temple through his despair. He'd skirted those edges too often on Gaftikar - Wren wasn't masochistic enough to want to delve back in again.

Yet here he was; back and side to the wall to avoid an ambush, his very presence an open invitation to a room full of wets who'd like nothing more than to see him get the _poodoo_ kicked out of his carcass.

What was it civvies said about old habits and equestrians? Or was that old dogs?

His soldier's paranoia made him look up from his drink just before he heard her voice.

"Hello, trooper. Mind if I take a seat?"

It was the auburn-haired woman he'd noted earlier, from the _shik's_ table. Her voice was low, husky, and on closer inspection, Wren had to upgrade his previous assessment of her from pretty to stunning.

She had a face that could have graced the cover of any holozine, its effect not at all diminished by the severe bun she'd pinned her hair into. She wore the blue-grey uniform even better, the tunic hugging generous curves in all the right places, while legs that wouldn't quit were tucked into polished, calf-high black boots.

In other words, she was just Wren's type.

And judging by the close once-over she was giving him, she wasn't opposed to what she saw either.

"Go ahead, _cheeka._ " He flashed her a lazy smirk. "I don't bite."

"That so? I don't think Steffen would agree." She inclined her head back towards her table of friends without actually taking her eyes off Wren. The group of officers was watching again, this time with mingled expressions of astonishment, horror and curiosity. All except the louie, who was glowering at Wren from above the rim of a large pint of lum ale - Steffen, presumably.

The _cheeka_ gave Wren a smile and slid into the seat on his right. "You tore him a new one."

"Figured he needed a new place to shove that stick up into, give his arse a rest."

She laughed at that - not a true laugh, but a throaty titter that may or may not have begun to grind against his nerves after a few days. No matter, though. He wouldn't have to stick around long enough for that to happen.

"You're a dangerous one, aren't you? Galactic Marine?" She stared pointedly at his modified Phase II armor. "I heard you were the most dangerous of the lot."

The thought of him as a Marine made him laugh, though the sound had a sour edge that she probably missed completely.

Truth was, Wren had applied for a transfer to the 21st Nova Corps after his original company had been obliterated on Jabiim. It hadn't taken more than six hours for Clone Marshal Commander Bacara to stonewall his request. Wren's service record - which included as many reprimands as commendations - hadn't been up to fekking Bacara's high-handed standards.

But this fem didn't need to know that. "Marines," he educated her, "wear maroon." He tapped the twin lightning bolts that ran like bloody tears across the T-visor of his bucket. "Not crimson."

"Oh. Well, you're not armored enough to be a commando." Her tone had taken on a teasing, mock-thoughtful tone. "Though I bet your service piece is impressive."

"Naturally."

"ARC trooper?" she hazarded.

The smile on his face froze and his fingers clenched around his whiskey-filled glass. Reflexively, he wanted to glance over his shoulder, to check if anyone had heard, but didn't.

ARC trooper? Once, yes, but now? He wasn't so sure anymore what he was, only that he didn't like thinking about it.

"Do you see a fekking _kama_ or pauldron?" There was more bite to his words than he'd intended, but if anything, the bite turned her on even more, if the sudden flare of hunger on her face was anything to go by.

"Guess not." She hadn't closed the two topmost buttons of her uniform tunic, and Wren got a good look at the curve of her breasts as she leaned towards him. "So then, what are you, trooper?"

A dangerous question and for one disorienting moment, one he didn't have a ready answer to.

Three years ago, he'd been an Alpha ARC cadet getting ready for a war that was half promise, half prophecy, until he'd royally fekked up and got himself 'demoted.' Three months ago, he'd babysat a shiny outfit on a rimmer planet no one gave a kriff about and not half a year before that, he'd been just a regular trooper crawling through the dirt, picking off clankers and trying not to get picked off in turn.

Now? There were days when he felt like a cadet again, using the heads-up display for the first time, trying to navigate through all the sudden angles, figure out where he was standing in relation to what he was seeing and hopefully not throw up from disorientation.

"Special operations," he finally said.

She clearly had no idea what spec ops detailed, but Wren didn't care. He wasn't looking for understanding. "Sounds _exciting,_ " she said. "You must see a lot of action." And she cast an appreciative glance over the crimson tally marks that ran up and down both his arms.

Exciting? He wished.

Wren'd known that teaming up with Ro would take him out of the thick of the fighting, but at the time, it hadn't appeared as if he'd be heading back to the frontlines anytime soon anyways. And mostly, the kind of jobs they did for SOB - tracking down and capturing any number of slime, from slavers to murderers, traitors and criminals - kept him occupied well enough. And Ro….Kriff, Ro could keep the entire Third Systems Army occupied without half-trying.

Except for the past few weeks, Zey had put them on one blue milk run after the other: locating stolen artifacts for the tailheads and turning Tatooine upside down for a stanging Sep base that existed nowhere but in the kriffed-up heads of Rep Intel. Which was why he was here in the first place.

Again, not something this _cheeka_ needed to know.

So he gave her a clear view of his profile, and his scars, flashed his trademark smirk again and gave her the answer she _really_ wanted to hear.

He whispered the names into her ear, as if already in bed with her, imparting sweet nothings. "Geonosis. Jabiim. Atraken. Qiilura."

Her mouth formed a perfect little 'o' of amazement and admiration - things Wren hardly cared about when he imagined other uses to put that mouth to.

"I believe," she was a little breathless as he withdrew, "I just broke up with my boyfriend."

He hadn't forgotten about the louie. Peering over her shoulder, he saw the group continue watching their exchange; Steffen as red as a boiled topato, looking fit to spit - or throw up - at the show his former girlfriend was putting on.

The _cheeka's_ hand was on his knee, traveling up his thigh as she admired the contrast between her flawless skin and the pitted, scarred surface of his armor with the unorthodox black and grey camo paint.

 _That's right, you love the scars - because you won't ever kriffing earn any yourself._

"Perhaps, trooper, you could give me a debrief on the tactics commonly used in the Outer Rim." She quirked a suggestive brow at him, head tilted slightly to the side to expose the elegant curve of her neck.

A little playful and totally shameless - kriff, yes, she was _just_ his type of bedwarmer.

And he knew her type as well. Here was a woman wanting a slice of the danger and excitement of the war, without any of the actual risk. Bored by routine and standards, she was looking for a bit of a scandal to spice up her life and upgrade to a male model that wouldn't snivel at the bare sight of a bit of steel - even if it was only for a few hours.

She was using him. A more morally minded being might have been offended and told the _schutta_ to fek off, but Wren had never made any pretense towards morality. What twisted sense of ethics he'd had left after coming out of Kamino certainly didn't include denying what was freely offered, no matter the circumstances. If she wanted to use him to vape off her ex, that was fine. He'd be using her just as much. Win-win, in his book.

He tilted his head back slightly, swirling the whiskey in his glass as he pretended thoughtfulness. "Frontal or rear assaults?"

That tittering laugh again. Yes, definitely grating after a while; he'd have to see if he couldn't keep her mouth occupied otherwise for the duration of their tryst. "Liberation strategies, storming the fort." It was her turn to whisper in his ear, her breath warm and tickling the shell of his ear. "Retaliation strikes."

He turned his head just enough to capture her lips in a searing kiss, giving her bottom lip a quick nip for that taste of danger she wanted from him. She tasted of caf and ale and warra nuts; the _clink_ from two tables down as the louie set his glass down _hard_ was just the frill syrup on the flatcakes.

When they parted, she was panting a little and Wren had decided that maybe coming to Nerrif had been one of Ro's better ideas. At least he was getting the dust blown off of one of his Deeces.

The glass by his elbow was still half-full. He drained it one go, poured himself a third and repeated the process.

The whiskey singed his insides almost as good as her kiss.

"My fraggin' area of expertise."

* * *

 _Count Dooku's palace_

Serenno was not a bright world.

Its primary cast a light that did not so much fall, as _gild_ the planet. The golden elegance of this light had appealed to generations of counts; Dooku was no exception. Walking sedately along the paved pathway, he watched the light curl itself around the roses of the ornamental gardens and lend his words a refined poetry.

"The dark side…" Dooku allowed himself to taste the words, to let them sink into his aged flesh and give him strength past his years. "The dark side is power. It is a raging river at the bottom of an abyss and all you need to sink into it and drink is allow yourself to fall."

A respectful ten paces behind him, Savage Opress fell to one knee, as blind to the quiet grace of his surroundings as he was deaf to the practiced sophistication of his Master's words.

"The dark side is already strong within me, Master," the Zabrak said. He knew better than to raise his eyes to his superiors, and so kept them fixed onto the pale pathstones. "I am ready to do your bidding. Allow me to prove myself on the battlefield."

Dooku suppressed a sigh. There had been a time when he, too, had burned with youth's strength and confidence, but within Savage, the combination created a level of denseness the Count found wearying. It was at times like these that he almost missed Ventress' presence. She, too, had been impatient and ambitious; always clamoring to be taught more; to be elevated into the ranks of the Sith; to become his _true_ apprentice. But that ambition had been tempered by a clever mind and sharp - at times even humorous - wit.

His latest assassin, however, was all muscle and little else.

Was it the Nightsisters' magick that had left this brute with so little intellect, or had this obtuseness always been a part of Opress' personality? Ultimately, however, it didn't matter. Mother Talzin had promised him a servant of Darth Maul's caliber and she'd not disappointed. But installing wisdom - or any kind of thinking - into mere muscle was proving a more onerous task than he'd anticipated.

Asajj Ventress had recognized every word of his as the crumb of Sith lore that it was and eagerly absorbed it.

Savage Opress would not recognize the entire cake if it were set before him by Darth Sidious himself.

"Strong you might be." Dooku stopped and lingered in the cross-shadows thrown by the line of obelisks that flanked the entrance to his palace. Observing the intricate play of light and dark, he added, "But only a fool mistakes brute strength for true power."

The decision to send Opress to Garqi had already been made, but perhaps another object lesson was warranted before he assigned such a delicate task to the Zabrak.

Without warning, the Count spun on his heels, hands extended as blue Force-lightning sprang from his fingers and tore into Opress.

The Zabrak howled, a guttural, animal sound, as the dark side cooked him in his own skin, burning through his blood and momentarily turning him transparent. Limbs jerking manically, the brute collapsed onto the ground, writhing in agony under the assault.

When the smell of cooking meat burned his nostrils, Dooku clenched his fists and the Force-lightning abruptly cut off, the power once more contained and controlled within the elderly Human. Leisurely, the Count let his hand fall to the lightsaber clipped to his belt.

"The dark side is more than you can possibly comprehend, assassin."

Gasping, Opress unwound his long body to stare up at the Count, yellow eyes burning with the mad gleam of hate. Tiny whiffs of smoke curled from his abused body. With a bellow, the Zabrak sprang to his feet and charged at the Sith Lord, head down like a raging nerf.

Casually, Dooku called his lightsaber to hand, igniting the blade. With its familiar _ssnapp-hisss,_ the lightsaber cast its crimson glow over the pavement. There was much to be said for Opress' resilience, but as the brute kept charging towards him at full speed, the Count wondered for a bemused second if the fool actually would try to headbutt him.

 _Such an_ inelegant _method of attack._

But it would seem that some of his previous lessons had actually managed to penetrate the Zabrak's thick skull.

At the last possible instant, Opress ignited his own double-bladed lightsaber, twisting to the left with surprising grace for a creature of his size. Meaning to bring his weapon's greater reach to bear, Opress swung in the classic _cho sun_ technique, attempting to amputate Dooku's weapon-arm.

 _Improvement,_ he thought wryly, _of a kind._

With the outward ease of Makashi, Dooku parried the blow, sidestepped the oncoming flash and ignored an oafish attempt at a feint.

"You swing that lightsaber like a gundark who has figured out the usage of a club."

Opress snarled at the scorn in his Master's voice and brought his lightsaber down in a two-handed thrust - little better than the aforementioned club.

Dooku's blade was like a striking nexu. One second, it seemed to caress his opponent's weapon, before the tip dove for an opening in Opress' defense and scored a deep line across his armor.

Opress stumbled back, one hand clutching at his injured shoulder - more out of surprise than actual pain, more likely than not. The armor - infused with Nightsister magick - was dense and nearly indestructible. Just like the warrior that wore it.

 _More's the pity._ The sting of the saber was sometimes what was needed to drive home the lesson, especially with so obstinate a student. Ventress, at least, had learned her lessons with admirable voracity; even if that same quality had, in the end, led to her downfall.

Stunned, Opress stared at the smoking line in his armor, before turning towards Dooku. The expression on the Zabrak's rough features was almost…. _hurt_. But then the rage returned in full and Opress roared. The dark side frothed about him, brought to a simmer by the assassin's rage. Utterly lost to his emotions, Opress charged heedlessly towards Dooku, all pretense at a plan forgotten.

"Fool," Dooku muttered. He had already tired of this game.

Keeping his lightsaber at his side, the Sith Lord flicked his fingers at the attacking Zabrak in the manner of a man shooing away a pesky tooka cat.

The Force uncoiled like a waiting spring.

Opress was thrown backward against one of the obelisks, the stone cracking around his body. Pinned like a gnatfly, the Zabrak battled the invisible chains holding him down, trying to push against Dooku's hold with his own mind.

But just as the storm might rage against the mountain, all that power would do no good so long as it remained unfocused. Had Opress wielded the Force like a precise dagger-thrust, he might have overwhelmed the older Human, but as it was, all of the assassin's rage was wasted - so much hot air blown into the afternoon sky.

Dooku's fingers curled and the Zabrak's howls ceased as his windpipe constricted. Feet kicking a meter above the ground, Opress dropped his lightsaber and scrabbled madly at his throat in a desperate - and futile - attempt to loosen the chokehold.

"You have much to learn, my would-be apprentice," Dooku mocked, before relaxing his fingers - and mind - and releasing Opress from the Force-choke.

With a gasp, the giant Zabrak fell to all fours, coughing and sucking in air.

Stretching one hand out, Dooku called the assassin's lightsaber to him, while shutting down his own weapon and clipping it back onto his belt with a duelist's unconscious flourish. Weighing the double-bladed lightsaber thoughtfully, the Count strolled towards the slowly recovering Opress.

"And the most important lesson is that while anger and hate feeds the dark side, you cannot allow yourself to be consumed in turn." He used the casual, sonorous voice he'd use on a faintly dim youngling and did not miss the flush that turned Opress' dark skin a deeper black.

During their lessons, Ventress would let him see her hate - and glimpses of awe and desire for his power, revealing just enough of her true feelings to think to flatter him. But Asajj Ventress, child of Rattatak, would have rather died than reveal the pain her Master was inflicting.

Not so, Opress. The Zabrak was like a beaten dog the way his yellow eyes followed his Master's movements; the hulking body cringing as the Count drew closer, as if fearing an open-handed strike.

Dooku passed him by without so much as a glance.

The dark side lapped at Opress' mounting shame as if sucking on an open wound. Lowering his eyes to the pathstones, Opress said, slowly, "But to give yourself over to anger…" he hesitated and Dooku paused in the shadows of the obelisks, a Master waiting to see if his pet akk had mastered a new trick.

"Giving yourself over to anger, is to give yourself to the dark side. To serve it completely." The Zabrak sounded like a Miraluka without Force-vision trying to describe color. He raised his head and stared up at Dooku, the gesture beseeching in his _need_ to get the lesson right. "As I serve you."

That, at least, was a stark improvement over Ventress. She had always sought to obtain the power and wisdom of the dark side to become a Sith herself - and to inevitably overthrow him, her Master. But Opress understood that his path to power was solely dependent upon Dooku.

"When one falls into the river, one does not simply surrender to its flow and drown. That, is the _Jedi_ way." The very idea sent a shudder of distaste through Dooku, as if he'd taken a sip of a promising wine that had turned to vinegar in his mouth. "The true Sith stands erect and learns to master and _channel_ the river. So you must learn to channel your anger." Still facing away from the Zabrak, Dooku folded his hands behind his back and continued his stroll to his palace. "Only then will you be able to serve me as you should." As Ventress never could.

Behind him, leather creaked and metal chinked as Opress worked to regain his feet, grunting from the effort and pain.

"I understand, Master."

 _I highly doubt it._ Even if he'd possessed a lifespan equal to that of Yoda, it was unlikely that Opress would ever mature past the standing of a blunt instrument. Finesse was simply not in the brute's nature. Savage Opress was an animal, albeit a useful one, and needed to be employed as such.

 _But even a blunt instrument has its place amongst my arsenal_.

The palace rose before them in the elegant curves of a resting sand panther; Dooku paused to contemplate its aesthetic beauty, as he'd contemplated the light falling upon the roses mere minutes before.

"You have asked for a chance to prove yourself, my apprentice. Very well, you shall receive it." Retrieving a hand-held holoprojector from beneath his cloak, Dooku floated the device over to Opress in a display none of his former Jedi Masters would have approved of. "You will travel to our staging post in the Cassander sector, where a fleet under the auspices of General Grievous is being assembled. You will accompany the general to Garqi, where you are to find this man."

He waved his hand and the 'projector sprang to life, revealing a holo-image of a Bothan of middle years with equine features.

"Karka Tr'ansom," Dooku identified. "He is in possession of a substance I desire - the Waste. Retrieve it and," he added, "Tr'ansom. Am I understood?"

The subtleties of the dark side might escape Opress completely, but he knew his place and the routines of obedience. He bowed low, casting his own shadow as he did so, as long as those of the obelisks.

"It will be as you've ordered."

The words were a balm to the crusted wounds Darth Sidious left in his pride. It was more fitting to receive the respect his age, rank and skills accorded him, instead of needing to abase himself like an errant youngling.

"Good. You will leave immediately." He Force-pushed the double-bladed lightsaber back to Opress. The Zabrak caught the weapon before it could smack him in the forehead.

Dooku was already on the first steps leading to his palace when he stopped, contemplating the crème-colored marble beneath his boots.

"And, Savage."

The Zabrak froze mid-step, turning back to his Master in clear trepidation.

"Yes...Master?"

Dooku turned, looking down his patrician nose at the brute.

"I want Tr'ansom _alive_."

Opress ducked his head, momentarily shamefaced at the cutting tone in Dooku's voice, where Ventress' gestures of respect had been undercut by a mocking flirtatiousness that had been intended as cruel as much as sarcastic.

Comparison of his former and present servant was similar to comparing finest Cyrene silk to synthsilk. The final conclusion would be serviceable and never fail to disappoint.

But as Opress went to one knee in supplication, Dooku thought that 'serviceable, but disappointing,' might just suffice, if wrapped in enough redeemable obedience.

"As you wish, Master."

Yes, as _he_ wished.

* * *

 _GAR Station Nerrif, N-deck_

Commander Arhen hadn't been anywhere near the turrets; that much was obvious after Podger spent nearly twenty minutes racing from one gun emplacement to the other, earning himself the ire of several of the stationed gunners and artillery specialists, who resented his intrusion into their domain. He was _crew_ ; just another shiny assigned to keep track of the number of flimsiclips that got bent out of shape over the course of a shift, until he'd assimilated enough real-world experience to be of _actual_ use.

Perhaps if he hadn't just lost a Jedi personally entrusted to him by Admiral Meldorne, Podger would have been more worried about the gunners' opinion of him. As it was, he was too busy trying to keep his nerve.

He'd covered far more ground than even a Jedi could have technically run with the kind of head start the commander had had, when he finally forced himself to stop and think. Running around in a panic wasn't what he'd been trained for - though his training had been shorted almost a full year, due to the constant need of fresh troops. He'd obviously made a mistake in thinking the commander had gone this way, or perhaps she'd doubled back, somehow evading his scrutiny.

Jedi could do that. According to his flash-training, there was very little a Jedi _couldn't_ do.

So he had to retrace his steps to cover all the possible exit points from the time he'd lost visual contact with the commander. If he couldn't locate her in the next five minutes - and this possibility made him swallow hard - he'd have to contact Ops and alert the admiral to his failure. Restricted access aside, the commander was unfamiliar with the peculiarities of Nerrif and could risk injury if she stumbled across an unsecured repair bay or a carelessly closed tibanna gas line. Having an injured Jedi on his hands would be a lot worse than the reaming he'd receive at having lost her in the first place.

With that in mind, Podger executed a clean about-face and jogged back the way he'd come.

To his surprise, his strategy panned out a lot earlier than he'd expected.

He was only one cross-section away from where he'd last seen Commander Arhen, when he caught a flash of unmistakable color from the corner of his eye.

Turning, Podger gaped to find the commander casually leaning against the wall next to a trooper standing sentry duty before one of the station's comm relays. She was laughing, bright teal eyes alight, obviously whole and _not_ blown up!

With a clatter he was sure the entire station could hear, Podger's stomach dropped back into place.

"No, for realspace, you hold up walls just stellar-"

"Commander Arhen!"

"Pookie!" She smiled as Podger ran over to her. "Knew you'd catch me."

"Yes, sir." A little out of breath, Podger glanced at the trooper to see his reaction to this unorthodox greeting, but the sentry had his helmet on - per regulation - and his expression was hidden behind the black T-shaped visor. But if the slight twitch of the man's shoulders was anything to go by, he was quietly laughing at Podger's plight. Podger cleared his throat and ducked his head a little as he said, "And it's 'Podger,' sir."

"But you're so _cute_ ," she said, pinching his cheeks before he had a chance to straighten and re-establish some professional distance between them. Not having a ready answer to that rather astonishing statement - he'd never heard any of his trainers refer to the clones as anything approaching ' _cute_ ' - Podger almost saluted out of sheer reflex. It was the natural thing to do around Jedi, even ones who deviated so drastically from the flash-trained image as Commander Arhen.

But before he could, the commander slipped her arm through his and was dragging him away. Podger almost stumbled over his own two feet, totally taken aback by the surprising strength behind the little commander's grip. Behind him, the trooper on watch was probably roaring with laughter beneath his bucket.

Shiny as he was, Podger was pretty certain he was never going to live this incident down.

Hopefully unaware of the dubious nature of his thoughts, Commander Arhen gave him a bright smile, tucking herself against his body. Whereas before she'd done everything to escape his presence, now she was firmly clinging to him and Podger found himself floundering in the face of this total reversal of attitude.

"Commander-"

"Never gonna call me 'Ro,' are _yousa_ , eh, Pookie?" she asked, looking up at him from beneath half-lowered lashes.

Unaccountably, Podger felt heat creep into his cheeks and the tips of his ears, uncomfortably aware that he was far too close to a superior officer. "It wouldn't be appropriate, Commander. Regulations state-"

"Pffft." She rolled her eyes, the smile never leaving her face, as if she'd heard it all before. "Ready-for-the-nanowave answers, Pookie, won't score you any points. It's alright, though. Truth to the skinny is that I'll be making exit, stage port side, before it'll matter to the tedious."

"You're….leaving, sir?" he asked, not certain he'd understood her correctly.

"Soon's I locate, collect and get the mesa goat of my curmudgeonly half."

"Pardon me, sir?"

She hummed a little tune, digging out a comlink as she continued to force him to keep in step with her. Podger watched the deck numbers go by, wondering where they were heading. N-deck was one of the more public areas of the station, and as such a commuter node, with hundreds of turbolifts and slideramps leading to other levels. Despite the crowded conditions of the corridors, the station crew and passing troopers gave the pair a wide berth as soon as they caught the gleam of the commander's twin lightsabers beneath her crimson jacket. The attention of being caught arm-in-arm with a Jedi made Podger sweat and he nervously adjusted the cap on his head - miraculously still in place after his deck-spanning sprint through the station.

Oblivious to the attention, the commander quickly typed in a comm-code, then clicked her tongue in the first real signs of irritation Podger had thus far seen from her, as the green light blinked several times, then abruptly flickered over to a burning orange.

"No one home on the pick-up front," she muttered, narrowing her eyes at the comlink before tucking it away again. "He's doing it again."

"Commander? Who's...doing what?" Podger asked tentatively. Truth be told, he was a little afraid of the answer.

"My partner took on the role of tall, dark and out of touch." A smile crossed her face that _looked_ as if it might barely hold back laughter, but which, Podger thought, held just the barest edge of something….else. Her teal eyes flashed, but when she cocked her head to the side to look up at him, her oval face betrayed nothing but an amused sort of patience and Podger figured he'd imagined the entire incident.

"How's about me and you," she bumped him playfully with her hip, sending shivers up and down his spine, "visit Wren in the bone and convince him to take on a sultry speaky?" She winked, then threw her head back and laughed as he blushed to the roots of his regulation cut, stuttering out a nonsensical reply.

* * *

She was too intent on making her ex jealous and Wren was too keen on getting his rocks off, so neither of them made it far.

Not that it fekking mattered. The storeroom behind the wardroom's bar was secure enough to at least give the illusion of a private tryst and anyways, this wasn't exactly the kind of connect-disconnect that warranted a hotel, let alone a bed.

Clothes scattered over the deck plates, a fem's long legs wrapped around his waist, while her hot breaths beat against his ear.

Fierfek, walls and crates would do.

Wren growled deep in his throat as he pushed strands of auburn hair back and nipped at the _cheeka's_ neck, eliciting a gasp and a rewarding rake of her nails down his back.

Little wonder that the incessant chirping of his comm took a few seconds to penetrate the haze he was giving himself to.

Her lips slightly swollen and eyes glazed with lust, she pushed an auburn strand of hair from her face before biting into his bottom lip.

"You're a wanted man, trooper," she purred.

He bit back, locating his comlink in a pouch on his discarded belt and kicked the offending piece of tech - belt and all - into a stack of crates loaded with packed warra nuts.

"Fek that," he snarled and hauled her ass up, eliciting another throaty gasp before he went for what he wanted - what he _needed._ For now. "It can effing wait."

* * *

Ro poked her head around the corner, Podger following suit after a few seconds. The trooper was downright queasy with roiling little jerks of _unease, guilt_ and _trepidation_ , to the point where Ro had to more or less shut him out entirely from her Force-senses, lest she upchuck her lunch in a spout of sympathy-nausea.

The pyrocrackers of _lust, desire_ and sheer, unadulterated _want_ that permeated the Force around the wardroom weren't making things any easier on the Force-empath. Someone - one guess who - was doing a quick and dirty rendition of the horizontal tango on ice with triple loop, backflipping action; an uneasy combination with Podger's emotions.

Not surprisingly, the mind-block had been slowly increasing the pain in her head the closer she got to Wren - and his Deece recalibrations - in an effort to ground her in the present, rather than get lost in the heady swirl of emotions. No doubt she was tempted to, at times, but over the years, Ro'd grown used to both this type of temptation and the pain of the mind-block. Now she managed to reduce both to a bearable level. Which was nifty, but also somewhat disheartening. Getting accustomed to pain hadn't exactly been at the top of her grand plan of life.

"Sir," Podger finally ventured, "if your partner is refusing to acknowledge your hails, perhaps we should inform station security and have them retrieve him."

She had to crane her neck around awkwardly to see his troubled frown. Podger obviously thought anything but an instant response to a Jedi's summons unacceptable, if not downright deviant.

Ro, who'd never had that kind of a relationship with Wren and who would have been appalled at such prompt obedience to her every beck and call, wasn't so much annoyed over the unanswered comm-call as over the fact that Wren had already forgotten about their latest Partnership rule. The little incident at The Sarlacc's Pit back on Mos Gamos wasn't more than seven hours old and you would have thought that an every-which-way brawl with half of Tatooine's shadier characters would be enough to drive the lesson home: _Never be unreachable._

Then again, after this little interlude, she'd be swimming in enough teasing material to keep her afloat for another week. So, silver lining found.

"You've got a lot to learn cue-wise about quick-stepping it onto the dance floor, Pookie."

A blank look was her only answer.

Truth be told, Ro wasn't exactly clear on how to approach the situation either. _Was_ there a prescribed, socially acceptable means of interrupting a hot, sweaty sheet-twisting session between two consenting adults, one of whom was possessed of a definite blaster fetish? If so, mailservice had lost her copy of that particular how-to pamphlet.

Maybe she should let security handle it. Wren was going to be tee'd off one way or the other and the troopers at least would be wearing armor. Simply letting him finish his little connect-disconnect didn't even occur to her. For one, Maze had no doubt already alerted Zey to what had happened and the tech crews wouldn't be too long in bypassing the hangar bay's emergency protocols. And Ro was _not_ going to let a juicy adventure slip through her fingers because of Wren's libido. For two…..'Kay, so she didn't really have a number two, but she figured one could hold up in court.

She was still weighing her options when her head practically exploded with a sudden collision of emotional flares - none of them related to the pristine clarion heights of sweet release. Instead or a virtual color bomb and swamping heat, Ro felt poisonous green and seething red clash in the Force; she tasted pond scum on her tongue and barely kept from spitting on the deck plates.

"Monkey feathers."

"Commander." Podger hesitantly moved to put a hand on her shoulder, then shouted in real alarm as she was off once more, running towards the door marked _Wardroom - Officers Welcome_. "Sir! Not _again_."

* * *

There was a thin line between pleasure and pain. With a single injudicious move, the louie blurred said line past all recognition for Wren.

He might have been amused, had the circumstances been different, had he not been chafing for weeks under boredom and frustrated needs. But he had, so everything went to hell in a _crinking_ handbasket in a matter of seconds.

He was too distracted by the arching female beneath him to hear the storeroom's door swish open, but the wordless cry of outrage penetrated.

Beneath Wren, the _cheeka_ froze, eyes wide in surprise, some of the flush disappearing from her face as her nails dug painfully into his shoulders, leaving deep, bloody crescents in the skin.

"Steffen-"

"Get the fek off her!"

Wren was already moving, turning to meet the expected blow, but the kriffing female couldn't get her ankles unhooked fast enough from around his waist, tangling Wren in her long legs.

The louie's punch was weak, off-balance, but so was Wren. Pain exploded along his jawline and he staggered back, his naked hip, buttocks and shoulder smacking against a tall conservator, half-dragging the _cheeka_ with him and off the crate they'd been using as an improvised bed. She shrieked and finally freed Wren from her embrace.

Steffen was already on the attack; having seen his first punch succeed, he was going for a second. But this time, Wren was ready.

He caught the fist and twisted the arm; bones bent and the louie's shrieks mingled with the fem's. Wren drove his fist into the other man's kidney, then struck an uppercut to his chin.

Dazed, gasping and bleeding from a split lip, the little shithead went down, Wren right atop of him, fists still going hard. He was deaf to his erstwhile paramour's screams - first of outrage, now of real fear - and blind to the sheer unfairness of this fight - the mongrel never stood a chance. They rolled over the floor, punching and kicking - or mostly clawing, in the louie's case, going for eyes and face as the other man tried desperately to shove Wren away.

The blood trailing down his face, the ache in his chest from a lucky punch - it was all past registering with Wren. What he did feel was the buzz between his ears that _finally_ drowned out his thoughts, the doubts and memories.

Pleasure and pain; arousal and anger; there weren't any lines at all, just the heat of his fury that encompassed them all, melting them into one ugly mass of emotion.

Wren had finally found the release he'd been looking for; he should thank the kark currently screaming his vaping head off for help - if Wren didn't kill him first.


	7. Linedance

**Chapter Seven: Linedance**

 _"It's called the chain of command, and it_ matters _, because we all have to be clear who's in charge, or else we'll be running around like nuna."_

\- CC-7576 ("Rex") to Padawan Ahsoka Tano, Battle of Christophsis

* * *

The scene they burst in on was worse than Ro had feared.

More than two dozen officers were scrambling back from the escalating fight just as the bartending droid came crashing down on the two combatants, thrown off balance as the interlocked bodies rolled into its wheel.

Ro winced at the sound of durasteel hitting flesh and hastily grabbed Podger, who'd stuck with her this time. She thrust the trooper ahead of her with all her strength, using his taller frame as a bulwark to shove a clear path through the crowd, which was still too shocked to make a move towards separating the two fighters.

Which was very, _very_ mono bad, Ro realized as she and Podger broke through and she got her first real good look at the brawl.

Well...it wasn't really a brawl at all, so much as a scuffling massacre.

Wren was straddling some poor masc in a torn uniform. His Force-presence was a roiling, jagged cloud of darkness and lightning; pure _fury_ incarnate that was slowly strangling the life out of the officer.

His emotions hit Ro with such force that she was momentarily frozen in place, which gave the friends of Wren's victim a chance to intervene. Shaking off their own paralysis, three Humans leaped into the fray, tackling Wren.

But Wren wasn't so far gone so as not to sense the danger. With the acuity of a hunting akk dog, Wren's head snapped up and around just in time to snarl at his first attacker and meet the man's lunge with a resounding elbow to the throat.

The man staggered back, but the other two took his place. Wren was shoved off his first victim and slammed into the wall behind the bar, just as an auburn-haired woman appeared in a discreetly set doorway, dressed only in a uniform tunic and panties.

Her appearance only seemed to galvanize her 'rescuers.' They pinned Wren to the wall, putting all their combined weight into it as the trooper thrashed and cursed in several alien languages, before they started in with their fists.

 _That_ broke Ro's paralysis.

 _"No_!" she screamed, her outrage stemming as much from her horror over the scene as from the emotions she was picking up from the rest of the wardroom.

"Gerard! Makken! Dunbar! Stop _it_!" the auburn-haired woman yelled as well, but made no move to come out of the safety of the doorway.

Ro had seen enough.

So, apparently, had Podger.

Perhaps it was the sight of another trooper being set upon, or just the unfairness of three against one, but Podger suddenly vaulted over the bar, Ro just a heartbeat behind him. The younger trooper wasn't wearing his armor, but he nonetheless dove headfirst into the fight. He collared one of the men holding Wren in place and wrenched him off of Ro's partner. In retaliation, the man took a swing at Podger, which the trooper neatly dodged.

Suddenly, there were _two_ brawls in the wardroom.

Wren might or might not be aware of the impromptu assist, but he did register the sudden freedom of his arm. Immediately, he punched his second attacker in the face, while kicking a third in the stomach.

Ro, meanwhile, was keeping one eye on the chaos behind the bar, while frantically rummaging through the contents of the wardroom's conservator.

"C'mon," she muttered, as Podger blocked a kick and Wren faced off against his three opponents; the officer who'd tango'd with Wren first was, apparently, a glutton for punishment. Someone was _finally_ calling for security, but by then, Ro had found what she'd been looking for.

"Pure sabacc." She grabbed the white box, ignoring the sounds of crashing bottles and pained grunts and jumped atop the bar to get the advantage of height, waiting for her shot.

She didn't have to wait long.

With a snarl more animal than Human, Wren rammed his shoulder into one man's back, while simultaneously grabbing hold of a second man's uniform. The three of them went tumbling down, Wren managing to land on top of the heap, while the first officer was knocked sideways by a stray leg.

All three slammed into the bar, almost rocking Ro from her position, but she kept her balance and unceremoniously dumped the contents of the box onto the seething mass of masc. Each fighter howled in surprise as a shower of chipped ice hit them full in the face - or, in Wren's case, cascading down his bare back. The combatants sprang apart and scrambled to their feet. Ro found herself glare-to-bellybutton with Wren, who was shaking himself furiously like a wet dog, ice skittering down his long frame.

She promptly clocked him a good one.

An astonished silence settled over the wardroom as Wren staggered back from the unexpected blow, just as a security team burst through the doors.

"It's alright." Ro thrust her arms up, icebox still clutched in one hand, waving them at the armed troopers like a traffic controller trying to land a freighter. "Situation's back under check."

The five troopers hesitated before sliding into a wary sort of parade-rest, and for a moment, Ro couldn't figure why, until she realized her jacket had ridden up, exposing the lightsaber hilts clipped to her belt.

Sometimes, it was real sweet being a Jedi.

"Bitch," Wren rasped from behind her and Ro heard the crunch of glass as he made to retaliate for the blow.

Podger and the newly arrived troopers tensed. Without looking back, Ro kicked behind her, catching Wren square in the chest and the trooper was sent staggering back a second time.

"Like I said, folks," she told the gathered crowd, "situation a-'kay and rosy. I'm a professional."

Judging by the looks she was getting from some of those assembled, that wasn't as reassuring as it had sounded in her head.

"Rosy, my ass!" The blond man Wren had tried to strangle struggled to his feet, his hands roaming over his body and hair as he tried to restore some order to his shredded appearance. His face, when Ro turned to him, was going on purple.

"I want this _clone_ arrested," he spat, pointing at Wren, who was leaning against a wall, trying to get his breath back after Ro's kick. "He attacked myself and my girlfriend…"

"Ex," the auburn-haired woman hissed.

At the same time, Wren sneered, "She wasn't kriffing complaining about my _attack,_ until you _crinking_ barged in, kark-head."

"'Kay, loads of name-calling going about, little of it helping. Mayhaps we shou- _woah_!" Ro tried, and failed, to gather up her jaw from where it had fallen, somewhere in the vicinity of her fem-bits, as she got her first good, _conscious, unobstructed_ view of her partner. "Holy hot-spiced Wookiee-ookiee." And what a view it was. "Cookie, you're _naked._ "

Bruised and battered, with blood dripping steadily from one nostril and into his right eye from a particularly nasty set of scratches, Wren merely swiped at his face and glared. "No shit, _cheeka_."

The security team shared a helpless glance, while someone in the crowd began to titter. Ro latched onto that strand of _amusement,_ hastily reinforcing it, letting it grow fat and spread, until most of the officers in the wardroom were chuckling.

Ro smiled with them, but inside, her mind was racing. They'd definitely worn out their welcome on Nerrif.

She hopped off the bar, mildly suggesting the security team call for a medic while taking statements from the onlookers, before latching onto Podger. Poor Podger had an asteroid-sized bruise on his cheekbone, and his pristine uniform was torn at one sleeve, but he looked better for wear than the rest of the brawlers, Wren included.

"Pookie, be a darling-dear and snatch the lieutenant's kit and caboodle before someone dies of blush-combustion." She gave him a gentle shove to reinforce the request. Podger looked ready to explode from confusion - probably the first time he'd ever been in a non-sanctioned fight - but he went quickly enough.

Soon as he was back, Ro snatched the bodysuit from the pile in his arms and thrust it at Wren. "Suit up your Cookie-balls. There's persons present."

The muscles of his abdomen rippled as he tensed, ready to balk - the Force was still a moody lightning-swirl of negative emotions around him - but one look at the security team closing in on their position had him reconsidering. Jaw clenched so hard Ro heard his teeth grind together, Wren nevertheless started pulling on his bodysuit.

Ro tried not to peek, but... _he was naked_ and she was a fem with a pulse. Sweet Dew cake on a hot chocolate platter, she was just in time to catch an uncensored glimpse of the shapeliest pair of buns of the flesh-and-toned variety disappear into the clinging confines of Wren's undergarments.

Her traitor mouth, of course, couldn't let _that_ go without commentary. "Oh, baby-baby. Momma's gotta get herself a pair of those." Because really, she had to. They should be part of the standard survival pack handed out to every female and thusly oriented male in the galaxy, to be broken out of packaging and gloried over in case of emergencies.

She may or may not have said the latter out loud as well, but if so, only Wren had heard her. He shot her another look that could have curdled carbon-freeze and kept on dressing.

"Ma'am." One of the clones from the security team was making a beeline for her, binders dangling prominently from his belt as the visor from his helmet swiveled between Wren and the other four Human males, who'd huddled together in one sullen corner.

"Commander," the trooper amended, when he saw her Padawan's braid. "A moment of your time. We have some questions pertaining to the incident and relative charges-"

"That's _so_ interesting," Ro interrupted, bubbling over with feigned enthusiasm. "You know who you should ask about that?" Ro hastily looked about, before finally latching onto a much confused Podger. " _This_ fine masc, right here. Me, I'm just a poor little fem on the pass through, but he's the man in the can with a plan. Right, Pookie?"

"It's Podger, sir…"

"Of _course_ it is," she agreed, with much nodding. "So you and Pookie have a _nice loooong_ chat and Pookie'll tell you all about it. Stellar story, really." She was talking too fast, and both troopers were too focused on keeping up to notice when she discreetly pushed the armor piled in Podger's arms at Wren, before giving Podger a good, enthusiastic shove at the security officers.

"Just give 'em the facts, Pookie and be sure to send me the flimsiwork _in_ triplicate and I'll be getting right back to you about all them fact-checking soon's I drop back from hyperspace and communications blackout…."

"Sir." The trooper with the binders tried to intercept, but Ro neatly stepped around him, snatching at Wren's elbow as she did so. For a moment, Wren dug in his heels, but Ro just kept on talking and pulling and neither trooper really had a chance.

"...and we'll get all these sordid details sorted and I really do think alcohol input needs to be curtailed, prohibitions the new yesteryear and all that skinny, and I'm _so_ looking forward to another play-by-chatter with Admiral Meldorne, he truly has the most stellar hair this side of the Rishi Maze and, oh, look, the medics are here."

The medical team stepped into the wardroom at that moment and Ro hastily pulled Wren past them and back out into the corridor. Her last glimpse of the wardroom before the doors closed was of a bewildered Podger being besieged by security.

She turned towards Wren, hands on hips, head cocked to the side. "So, my last thirty miks consisted of sabotage, theft, evasion and a peep show. How'd your day go?"

* * *

 _Later….._

Ro wasn't a third as confrontational as Wren - 'kay, maybe _half as_ \- preferring teasing and laughter to smooth over any rough spots, but it seemed that today was just brim-filled with sentients who weren't interested in being charmed.

Case in point was currently giving her a hundred parsec long stink-eye.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't have Captain Maze _escort_ you back to Coruscant?"

Judging by General Arligan Zey's tone of voice, " _escort_ " wouldn't involve a proffered arm and a bouquet of flowers, dinner and theater to follow.

Ro peeked at the older Jedi from beneath her tangled curtain of emerald bangs. "Uhm, while that sounds stellar fun and I'm not in the usual to objecting to a little boom in a pick-up line," she scratched the back of her head, "I'm pretty on the certain that Maze ain't blowing on all thrusters at the nanosec and in need of ticks to capture a new bird to fly on by." She shrugged as Zey's holo-image flushed. "In the mean of the time, Wren and I are well and away onto Garqi."

"Yes." Zey's eyes flickered to the empty copilot's seat next to Ro and narrowed. "And where _is_ your partner, Commander Arhen? Considering I just received a multiple assault and battery charge against him, I take it you left the lieutenant on the station for Admiral Meldorne to deal with. As you. Should. Have."

"Cookie?" Fiddling with the triangular charm that hung off of her Padawan braid, Ro watched as the light of the cockpit bounced off of its smooth, silvery surface. "He's doing….manly...clone grit...thingies….He's washing his hair."

 _Smooth, Ro._ Alright, so she sucked the big lollipop when it came to lying, but there was no way she'd be telling Zey that Wren was busy pounding the _poodoo_ out of a boxing bag, in an effort to bleed off some of his lingering frustrations and anger. That was private; it already ate at Wren that she was privy to his habits.

Ro glanced back at Zey, saw his scowl deepen and added, "I told him no dessert for supper; bad trooper - no biscuit."

"I'm sure the lieutenant will rue the day he crossed you," Zey shot back. With a sigh, he ran a hand over his face, as if that would help wipe away the dark circles beneath his eyes.

Not for the first time, Ro felt an overwhelming sense of pity for the other Jedi. Even through a holo no more than a handspan tall, Zey's large, muscular frame appeared crammed in behind his desk, yet still dwarfed by stacks of datapads, mountains of flimsies and piles of datacards. Zey was a man besieged and Ro'd just added to his daily dosage of troubles by leaving a Star Destroyer-sized mess back on Nerrif, which Zey would have to clean up. That didn't sit well with Ro. For all that she wouldn't take back a single thing she'd done today, Ro'd been taught from an early age to clean up her own messes and take responsibility for her actions. Well, she'd be doing the latter, at least.

"There'd be no rueing had I not tried to pretty-please myself a slice of the action-pie with whipped adrenaline. Even tied it all up with a triplicate bow of red-taped bureaucracy. Had I gone the direct skylane on first complaint, the sap of all those flimsies wouldn't be on my hands and your inbox."

Alright, so maybe she was a _wee bit of a tad_ confrontational.

"The GAR is _not_ a democracy, Padawan." For once, Zey dispensed with the military titles. "You do not get to arbitrarily pick your assignments. I do not know what Master Altis taught you, but as long as you are a member of this organization, you _will_ follow orders."

"Or you'll do what?" And boyo, hadn't she been spending way more loads of time with Wren than she should have for _that_ to slip out? "Send me to my meditation pad without supper? Spank me?" She waggled her eyebrows suggestively at the sputtering Zey. "Have _Maze_ spank me?"

The older Jedi visibly fought for control, running agitated hands through his greying hair. Even in the blue wash of the holo, Ro could tell his face was flushed - she just wished this convo was taking place in face-time, so she could also divine his emotions. Ro was good at reading body language, but her Force-empathy was what allowed her to pick up on emotional currents so subtle, even the person in question wasn't always aware of them. All that aside, it didn't take a Zeltron cafarel to figure out Zey's primary urge at the moment was to spear her with his lightsaber - and _not_ in the fun way.

 _Urgh, Ro,_ she thought at herself. _Didn't know you had older-male-daddy-attractions._

Zey sighed; the sound so soft it was barely audible over the ship's comm-speakers. After a moment to collect himself, Zey regarded her once more. "Your actions today revealed a disturbing lack of maturity on your part, Padawan; not to mention a damaging disregard to your rank and station within the GAR. If it were up to me, you'd be dismissed from services immediately."

Shame burned her cheeks at being scolded as if she were an Initiate back at the Temple, caught tearing pages out of the Archive's precious collection of flimsibooks. But Ro wasn't about to back down because of a mere scolding. She'd endured similar lectures during her tenure at the Temple and had finally managed to ruthlessly squash that little, timid girl that always lurked in the corner of her soul, who begged to prove that she could keep up, hold her own, _be_ worthwhile if only someone would give her a chance. She _wasn't_ that youngling anymore - even if, at the age of nineteen, she was still forced to work for chances.

" _Bombad_ goody- _moor_ for the two of us then," she snapped back, with more heat than she'd intended, "that bodycount rules the equation. Higher heads than yours are licking their chop-chops for warm bodies and I'm just a Star Destroyer of sunshine."

"Your sarcasm is inappropriate, Padawan."

Ro raised an eyebrow at the holo. "Who's to say I was offering a dish of cold-cut sarcasm?"

Zey's lips pressed together until they practically disappeared, but his meshed fingers atop his desk relaxed from their death grip. Ro had won this battle. Zey'd been fighting this war, this administration, the work and his responsibilities for almost two years now. Having joined the fight just three months ago, Ro's nose hadn't been worn down to a nubbin' by the grindstone yet - and they both knew it.

"I assume you're already enroute to Garqi?" the Jedi Master finally asked.

Not above feeling smug, Ro straightened in the pilot's chair, glancing over at the nav computer as she did so. "Straight as a plasma bolt. So, what's on Garqi?"

Zey snorted. Now that he'd accepted the inevitable, he straightened in his own chair, the backrest creaking slightly as he did so. Caustically, he asked, "Don't tell me you haven't already absorbed all the mission-specific details?"

Her shifting eyes betrayed her as Ro looked down at the datapad lying on the console next to her. Artee'd decrypted the contents of the datacard she'd nicked from Maze within ten minutes of their departure from Nerrif with the help of the ship's computer, Ro and an assortment of very illegal slicer spikes. The astromech was already uploading the files to his memory banks and Ro's personal datapad while steering the ship, highlighting the more salient points, and she'd been skimming the data on the side all during Zey's comm-call.

"I don't maraud and tell," she said with a casual shrug and smile.

Zey eyed her dubiously for a moment, then resigned himself to his fate. "Four days ago, Doctor Oben Kattic contacted Republic Intelligence via one of their Republic-friendly contacts onplanet, with an urgent request for political asylum."

"Nifty." Ro cocked her head to the side, her mind going a million klicks a nanosecond. "And what did he offer as payment for the transfer flimsi?"

A humorless smile flitted over Zey's stern features. "Something Director Isard couldn't refuse. Dr. Kattic is a prominent member of Garqi's Agricultural University and his research has made him an asset we would like to have on our side."

Artee warbled, drawing Ro's attention down to the datapad, where a highlighted section of text blinked insistently. She overflew the relevant data quickly, then gaped back at Zey.

" _Fertilizer_?" She couldn't believe this! All this effort, all this trouble, and _this_ was what she'd snagged? "All this fuss-kicking for a masc who's spent the better fulls of three decades investigating the charms of biochemical fertilizer?" Had she been that off on her hunch? Worse, had she just dived head-first into the boiling kettle for another blue milk run? Rather absently, she added, "Gotta tell you, Master, I eyeballed the Chancellor's last speech and it didn't strike me as him needing auxiliary helping hands on deck for making Jade roses grow where the truth don't shine."

For a moment, Zey looked as if he were considering telling her to mind her own business, before remembering whom he was talking to. "RI apparently thinks otherwise."

Ro chuckled. It was nice to be back on joking-terms with Zey; she genuinely liked and respected the older man, even if they tended to cross signal wires on occasion.

"Doctor Kattic agreed to hand over his research in return for safe passage into Republic territory. Communications broke down before a final meeting could be arranged, but RI considered the matter of top priority and organized an assault on the planet, supported by clone troops, to insert one of their agents in hopes of retrieving, if not the doctor, then at the very least his research."

"Whoa the mynock muffins; be kind to rewind." She held up her hands as if to physically stop the flow of words and beside her, Artee gave a startled beep. "You slagged a planet to retrieve _one_ scientist?"

'Kay, forget the blue milk run bit. She'd _definitely_ been right on the credits with this one. If the Republic was willing to assault an entire _planet_ for this fertilizer-doc...

Zey didn't miss the accusation behind her words, nor her usage of the personal pronoun. The frown lines around his mouth and between his eyes deepened as he regarded her sternly. "The assault served a variety of purposes, _Commander._ "

They were back to the military rank and filing and Ro grimaced. _She_ didn't miss the significance behind his word choice, either.

"Asside from occupying a strategic position within Separatist space, Garqi is a major agricultural world; its liberation from the Sep stranglehold would provide the Republic with a strategic supply base, not to mention a jumping-off point for an assault into the heart of CIS space. That alone means we'd have to have sent troops there eventually. Additionally, Kattic's research cannot be allowed to remain within Separatist hands. Taking out his research facility at the Ag University and private residence under cover of the assault ensured the destruction of said research, without alerting the CIS to the fact that they have a leak onplanet. And the assault, at least," he concluded grimly, "was a partial success. Though General Krell's men were forced to retreat, the troopers destroyed all mission-relevant targets beforehand."

"How stellar for them." Ro rubbed at her temples, before absentmindedly fingering the black cord that secured her holo-locket. She was trying very hard not to hiss like a bunked tooka cat over such heavy-handed tactics. An entire assault force? Really? Hadn't Teth taught the GAR even a little that they couldn't solve every problem by throwing entire companies of clone troopers at them?

 _Fight smart._ It was one of the first edicts of combat she'd been taught back at the Temple and though she was no military genius, it was easy to see that the last thing the Jedi or the Senate were doing was fighting smart in this war. She just didn't understand what Master Yoda and Windu were _thinking_.

 _They're not giving to the thinks right now, Ro,_ she reminded herself. _From point zero, the Seps' been popping and the Jedi jumping._

She didn't ask Zey for a casualty number. Knowing how many troopers' lives had been wasted would likely turn her stomach and have her reconsidering her choice to join the war effort.

So instead, she asked, "What's this research that warrants these mono loads of pyrotechnic blaster-pops?"

"Unknown."

Her jaw dropped to the floor. "Capital ' _huh_ '?"

Zey steepled his fingers before him and the holo flickered, as if in answer to his sudden tension. "Republic Intel does not deem this a detail worth passing along. Suffice to say that it could mean a turning point in the war." He grimaced, as if he'd bitten down on a rancid piece of muja fruit. "Their words, not mine."

Ro hummed an inquiry at Artee, but the little astromech's domed head rotated in the negative, the datapad at her elbow running only a single paragraph that referenced Kattic's work and it was so general as to be useless.

"If the boyos at RI don't wanna share their toys, how come's they've invited SpecOps to their playpen?" she demanded, starting to get exacerbated by this level of uncooperativeness. It was like being back on Gaftikar. Stirring gumbah pudding! Was she the last sharing adult left between the stars?

"RI has lost contact with their agent." Seeing her open her mouth, Zey held up a hand to forestall the obvious question. "It's unknown whether he's alive or not, but Director Isard assumes the worst. Given the urgency of the matter, the Chancellor has authorized Special Operations to take over and try to finish the mission."

"And the agent? If we're already sniffing about the place looking for one gentlebeing, ain't no skin off my neb to look for number two."

"I'm sure his family would appreciate any concrete information as to Agent Tr'ansom's fate," Zey admitted, after a moment's hesitation.

At her elbow, the datapad's screen blinked, but remained empty. Artee wasn't coming up with any Intel on this Tr'ansom agent, aside from a series of recognition phrases embedded deep in the datacard's encryption codes. Not surprising, really. Republic Intel wasn't in the habit of publicizing their agents' IDs for the weekly HNE fanboy-fangirl fav pick.

"This is search and rescue." Ro turned away from the 'pad to speer Zey through the endless stretches of holo-traffic. "Digging up clues and connecting the nav points. Just my kind of alley, and one I've been upping for you quite well, in added addition. Then why do I get the sense that you'd kept fobbing me off to blue milking the Outer Rim?"

Zey narrowed his eyes. He was incredibly controlled; had to be, to deal with volatile, smart soldiers who were trained to interpret even the slightest twitch in body language for weaknesses. But the shift of his tunic as it resettled over his newly tensed shoulders was something he couldn't hide. "Every mission I have assigned to you and your partner has required agents with your particular talents."

"Any organic with two thinks left to spark between 'em could have found those artifacts on Nar Shaddaa, Master Zey." She blew the bangs out of her eyes so as to give him the full measure of her disbelief. "They were _advertised_ on the HoloNet. And it's _Nar Shaddaa_ ; I could have gotten the Chancellor's jewel-studded panties for a discount. As to a super-secrety don't-ask-don't-tell Sep base on Tatooine, Cookie and I combed the desert and didn't find a dander flake of a Sep, though figure me blank on why the Seppies don't wanna party it up or down under the twin-sun horizon-"

"Commander Arhen-"

"-though the whole onplanet could use some stellar redecoration services, supposing however that a Hutt in every alcove is the dream-scream for a spice-cooking artist fandom occupied with singing 'Ode to the Republic' backwards, but who's to clean the slime trail off the Tusken rugs is my wondering-"

"Commande-"

She wasn't letting him get a word in edgewise. Ro was on a roll and her engine-mouth going a lightyear a second, the words all spilling out in a single continuous breath and sentence.

"-mono nifty beach potential accounts for aplenty, though, and the kiddos on the invite list might just turn the whole place into the biggest galactic sand castle, but drawbacks being a nonexistent quelch factor, minus any water potential excepting what a few brave and dried out farmers can suck from the skies." She had to stop, or else risk her face turning blue and wouldn't that just clash with her pink tunic? "On second think," she concluded, studying the rivets in the cockpit's ceiling with mock-seriousness, "I really gotta wonder why the Seps would ever be interested in Tatooine? Oh, wait." She snapped her fingers, as if struck with sudden enlightenment. "They weren't."

"Are you quite finished?" Zey bit out.

"Some."

Ro tossed her long, platinum blonde mane back, smiling at the mingled look of exasperation and amusement on the Jedi's face. No matter how much she might drive Zey up the hyperlanes, she knew that he agreed with her far more often than he was at liberty to admit - and he knew that she knew, which was why, despite everything, Ro's tenure in the GAR actually worked.

It was also why Ro abruptly dropped the silly chatter to lean forward in the pilot's chair, elbows braced on the control console. The lights of a million stars glimmered at the edges of her vision as she carefully looked Zey's holo-image up and down, before voicing the question she'd wanted answered all along.

"Wren and I haven't come up empty once since starring in your lineup, Master Zey; we're pixel perfect for this kind of low and dirty. So why weren't we assigned this mission in the first place?"

Zey wasn't a Jedi Master for nothing. He returned her look with one of perfect calm, his expression closed and carefully blanked and just like that, Ro couldn't read diddly off of him. It would have been different if she'd been in the office with him - even a Jedi Master revealed something of his feelings to Ro just by blanking them in the Force - but confined to the staticy limits of a holo, she was as reliant on her limited physical senses as the next non-Force-sensitive. Challenges were stellar, but it was nice to have an Idiot's Array up her sleeve whenever possible.

"Any agent sent to Garqi would be forced to operate deep behind enemy lines and General Krell has been ordered to return to Garqi within thirty-eight hours, to finish what the initial assault began and bring the planet back under Republic control."

"I'm sure he's thrilled." Zey wasn't the only one who could go blank. Though it went against her naturally ebullient nature, Ro had enough self-control to play the non-game with the best of them. "And some unfriendly terrain with plasma rain will couple to send our party of two scurrying into the nearest burrow like a pair of tumble bunnies."

She'd thrown the remark out on a whim, but Zey's gaze flicked to the side, the corners of his mouth gave the barest downward twitch and something deep in Ro's guts twisted.

"The lieutenant is an experienced soldier, on and off the battlefield."

Wren always said she was too shrewd for her own good - now she knew he was right. Her jaw clenched painfully and her hands balled into fists where they rested on her crossed legs. "You think _I_ can't handle it."

He didn't answer her - he didn't have to.

She hated herself for it, but Ro dropped her gaze to study the stitching on her light blue pants, curling her bare toes against the fabric in the confines of her cross-legged pose within the chair. There was a burn at the back of her throat that she fought to swallow.

So that was why they'd been getting one assignment after the other far away from the Outer Rim Sieges: the top-notch brass back on Triple Zero didn't think she could handle the up-close-and-personal view of the Clone Wars.

 _But they don't bat an eye at sending fourteen-year-old Padawans straight from the Temple into the thick of the fighting. How special you are, Ro._

She'd suspected, of course, but having it confirmed by Zey's silence….It _hurt._

A true Jedi would no doubt acknowledge the emotional turmoil roiling inside of her and set it aside, releasing all that poison back into the Force. But, she thought with growing disappointment, it was already pretty well established in the Order that she was no one's idea of a ' _true_ ' Jedi - not like Garett.

Artee, growing concerned over the prolonged silence, whistled questioningly at his Human partner. Since they'd now cleared the Nerrif system, they could jump to hyperspace. With the course he'd set in the navicomp, their chances of colliding with any wayward asteroids or micro black holes was less than 0.0002%, which he deemed acceptable enough.

Ro pulled back her shoulders and sat up ramrod straight. Meeting Zey's eyes, she thrust her chin out stubbornly.

"Consider the gauntlet accepted, _General_." It was the first time she'd voluntarily called him by his rank and the older Jedi leaned slightly back in his chair in surprise, his gaze flickering over what he could see of her through the holo-link in an effort to surmise the sudden change in her attitude.

"What are you-"

"You'll receive word from myself or Lieutenant Wren upon completion of our mission," she bit out tersely. " _Mockingbird_ out."

* * *

 _Aboard the_ Invisible Hand

Savage paused in the entryway of the command bridge to let his eyes adjust.

It happened so much faster now than it used to. Whereas he'd once struggled to make out a single shifting shadow amongst the many on a sparring field under Dathomir's night, now it took but a blink or two for him to penetrate the darkness and see individual scuff marks along the computer consoles. It was the power that now coursed through his veins….the strange magick gifted to him by Mother Talzin and her Nightsisters. It made him strong and he would never have to fear the hidden places within the darkness again - he was as much a part of it now as the shadows themselves.

Confidently, Savage stepped onto the bridge, taking in the bustling activity of pre-departure preparations.

The B1 battle droids manning the stations never once glanced in his direction, going about their tasks with single-minded efficiency. Savage spared them as little thought as they gave him. They were tools, like his lightsaber, but less….. _vibrant_ \- he still struggled with finding the proper words to describe his new senses and it made him angry.

Aside from him, there were only three other organic beings aboard the bridge. Two of them were Neimoidian communications officers; sniveling creatures that hastily averted their faces from his burning scrutiny.

The third….could barely be called organic at all.

General Grievous cast a brief look over one hunched shoulder at the newcomer, narrowing his eyes at Savage before turning back to his scrutiny of the giant space port they were currently docked at, its curving side barely visible from the sharp angle of the _Hand's_ viewport.

The cyborg's easy dismissal burned. Who was he to turn away from such power, from the dark side that now swam through Savage's veins? The embers of hatred already smoldering in his belly flamed. Strong fingers tightened into fists; his body canted forward as if to spring in attack…. But no. This was not the time or place, and he had orders. Savage fought back the instinctive urge to fight, and instead boldly stepped up to stand beside Grievous.

It was like stepping into a heat haze; the air around the cyborg was thick with tension and the heat of threatening violence, though for all intents and purposes, this was as relaxed as Grievous ever got. Though two lightsabers were clipped to his skeletal hips, the claw-like hands were clasped behind his back and though slightly spread, there was a cock to the sharp-angled knees that suggested at-ease, rather than the readiness to spring at an enemy.

Savage blinked in an effort to clear himself of what felt like a case of double-vision. They were getting fewer, these moments where his warrior senses clashed with his new-found Force-abilities, but they were no less disconcerting. It was as if two teachers were talking at him at once; each _telling_ him the same thing, but not the same way. And while he tried to follow both examples, most often he managed to follow neither.

This time, he did shake his head, pushing the warrior's voice - the voice of his old life - back down into the green mist that had settled over the memories of that part of his life. It wasn't until Grievous' yellow eyes burned into him that he realized he'd let a low growl escape his throat.

"Savage Opress." Coming from the cyborg general, his name was more of a raspy cough than the usual soft hiss of sibilants. "So you're Dooku's new pet assassin." A second calculating gaze took in his towering figure, the hard muscles that bulged beneath the armor; the double-bladed lightsaber strapped to his belt.

A snort that was more of a hacking cough wracked Grievous' body.

It was almost too much to bear, being mocked by this...creature. Savage's lips peeled back in the barest of snarls. But he was….confused, as well. It was all so _much,_ sometimes. He could sense the fear and apprehension off of the Neimoidian comm officers; tangy but easily drowned out, clinging to his palate like freshly caught burra fish. Droids, however, were emotionless machines and the dark side slid off of them like smears of oil, unable to hold on to their shiny bodies. And Grievous was as disturbing a blend of flesh and machine in the Force as he was in body. Savage could not _feel_ him as he did the Neimoidians cowering over their consoles; could not discern the thoughts behind those calculating yellow eyes.

Another failure. His snarl gained strength as the aggravation burned his innards like so much Force-lightning.

Twisting his upper body about to face the towering Zabrak - a maneuver disturbingly boneless despite the whirring of micro-servo-motors - the cyborg suddenly straightened from his hunched position. The mechanical legs elongated; the hump straightened into a proud, erect line. The white cloak thrown over those thin shoulders ceased to trail over the floor to barely graze the sharp heels.

For one of the first times since his awakening through Mother Talzin's magick, Savage found himself eye-to-eye with another being.

"Have I hurt your feelings, assassin?" Grievous wheezed.

Though scratched and dinged, the armor - the _exoskeleton -_ was bone white, giving Grievous the appearance of a walking corpse. The stench of death even clung to the abomination, mingling with the smell of lube oil and hot circutry and something more subtle - something _rotting_.

Savage's nostrils flared, but he stood his ground and did not demean himself by replying to this _thing's_ question.

The staring match was broken by the approach of a B1 battle droid, datapad in one spindly hand. "General Grievous, sir, the fleet reports all hands on deck and ready for departure."

Grievous allowed a second to pass by, just enough to ensure Savage understood that it was duty that made him break eye contact, the need to attend to matters far more significant than the Zabrak, and not any weaker emotions.

 _But he is weak_ , Savage thought. _Hatred makes_ me _strong. Does this mangled creature feel anything? What can it truly know of the dark side?_

"Very well." The cyborg took a step back, quickly surveying the bridge with the eye of an experienced warrior before his gaze fell on the Neimoidians. "Signal the fleet to move out and prepare for hyperspace jump."

The Neimoidians scurried to their respective stations. Grievous eyed their progress and though his mask did not lend itself to facial expressions, there was something of a sneer in his manner. Savage's lips pulled back in a true sneer, for there was no limit to what _he_ could do.

And there was no honor in commanding spineless underlings to do his bidding. _Weak_ , he thought again, glaring at the rotting, stinking excuse for a machine.

The pitch of the engines changed, from a deep-throated purr to a rising hum. The deck plates beneath his boots vibrated as the _Hand_ cast off its moorings and began to drift away from the station - just one of the many Separatist staging posts in this quadrant.

Behind the _Hand_ , Savage knew, twenty more dreadnaughts and several dozen frigates were falling into the dagger-like formation that was Grievous' trademark; ready to surround Garqi like a pack of rancor and tear apart any Jedi unfortunate enough to wander their way.

At the thought of the Jedi, Savage's fist clenched. On Devaron, Master and Padawan had fallen beneath his blade like cast-off leaves. More weaklings, playing at the Force. Any opposition he met on Garqi would suffer a similar fate.

In his veins, the dark side thrummed in rhythm with the dreadnaught's engines. He took a deep breath to savor the sensation. _This_ was power. _This_ was strength.

"Do you know what happened to Dooku's last assassin?"

Jerked from his thoughts, Savage glared at the cyborg. Grievous had turned that yellow-eyed stare of his back onto the spreading starscape outside the viewport.

Savage did not reply. There was no need; Asajj Ventress herself had told him. A fact Count Dooku needed to remain ignorant of.

Grievous was once more hunched forward in the manner of a Rhoa Kiw - large, fearsome predators native to Dathomir - about to strike its hapless prey. Yellow eyes watched the Zabrak from their periphery, trying to gauge his reaction. "After one too many failures, she was _disposed_ of. There's a lesson to be learned for _you_."

The Force snapped into Savage's hands with the feel of a well-tended sword hilt as he prepared himself for the blow. "Her fate will _not_ be mine," he snarled.

But the cyborg made no move to attack, merely shifted on his durasteel feet so the edges of the cloak swept back enough to reveal more lightsabers hidden in its folds: trophies taken from dead Jedi. "Follow your orders," Grievous hacked, "and stay out of my way, assassin."

Savage gnashed his teeth at the cyborg's hunched back before turning on his heel. There were better ways to spend his time than remain in Grievous' company. He had the Force. He had everything.


	8. Friction

**Chapter Eight: Friction**

 _"If in anger you answer, then in shame you dwell."_

 _-_ Grand Master Yoda

* * *

 _Pesktda_

The patrol made a thorough job of evacuating the neighborhood. Under the auspices of a Human captain, droids did house-to-house searches, escorting any remaining civvies out of the buildings - whether they wanted to be evacuated or not.

Ramjet slid further down the side of the burned-out husk of a groundspeeder as the seeker droids swept past, multiple photoreceptors scanning the surrounding area for lifesigns. If they were using biometric scanners, he and his men - he'd stopped calling them a squad after losing Pin - were toast. There weren't enough civvies left in the area to confuse the clones' bio-signatures with those of other Humans. If they were using heat-signatures, however….

The heat from the turbo lasers that had cut a swath through this section of Pesktda still radiated from the street and houses. The ferrocrete beneath Ramjet was bubbled and cracked where it had melted during the assault; the residual heat baked through the plastoid to his skin. Seeker droids were simple machines, single-minded in their purpose. If they were programmed to scan for heat-signatures, it wouldn't occur to them to switch functions, even in an environment that had to be ten degrees above the norm - if they even _could_ switch. Ramjet wasn't certain. His training concerning scouting droids had mostly revolved around blasting them on sight, not the details of their internal programming. He silently cursed that oversight now.

The gentle thrum of repulsors moved closer to his hideout.

 _Fek_. Ramjet shot a glance at what remained of his ten-man squad. Check and Tryout were crouched in an alley, the mouth of which was partially blocked by the wrecked speeder that served as Ramjet's cover. The two troopers hunkered behind a dumpster; Check's left arm was braced against Tryout's chest to keep the injured trooper from slumping forward. Slag had chosen to hide behind the partially collapsed wall of a building that sided the alley, which was a terrible idea. Scraps of clothing and a bloody, twisted hand poked out from beneath the broken duracrete; the building had been a residential home, which meant that someone was likely to come looking for the previous owners sooner or later. With the way their luck was going, it was likely to be sooner.

Ramjet gave it another three-count, but when the repulsor sounds continued to draw near, he pressed his Deece against his chest and rolled beneath the burned-out speeder. He just caught a glimpse of his men ducking further behind their respective covers and then his HUD was filled with the view of cracked ferrocrete below and slagged speeder above. His backplate scraped against the speeder's undercarriage and Ramjet froze, breath caught in his throat.

One of the seeker droids paused, repulsors thrumming somewhere above his head.

 _Blasted thing's hovering right over the kriffing speeder._

His grip on his Deece tightened painfully. If he broke cover now to make a run for it, he could lead the patrol away from his men. Even if Tryout couldn't make it without Pin, their medic, Check and Slag had only suffered minor wounds during the battle. If they could get past this patrol, haul tail out of the city and into the jungle….

He was about to snap from the tension when a voice cried out: " _You there!_ "

For a dangerous second, Ramjet's knees were gathered beneath him, poised to roll out from under the speeder and bolt back into the open. His only thought was, _Stay put. All of you, just stay put._

" _You!_ " The voice came again: sharp, authoritative and annoyed. The voice of an organic officer about to deck out punishment detail for some minor offence. " _Citizen! Stop!"_

He almost collapsed with relief at that word, " _citizen_." No kriffing way could anyone mistake the clones as citizens.

A shout, then running footsteps and the authoritative voice snapped out again, more angry than annoyed this time. " _Stop right there! I said, stop!_ "

Ramjet turned his head, trying to see what was happening, but the space between undercarriage and ferrocrete was just wide enough for his body to slide in-between, so long as he lay perfectly flat. Even with his HUD's wrap-around vision, the fact that his cheek was essentially pressed to the ground didn't afford the best of views. All he saw was rubble and a rather large, dark patch that might have been oil or blood, while further off, a pair of feet was swiftly running in the opposite direction. And then feet - droid feet - came racing by as the patrol gave chase. The seeker droid hesitated. Above the pounding of the chase, Ramjet could still hear its repulsors in the same spot as before, but then the pitch shifted and the sound moved away, following the rest of the patrol.

The fatigue of the last two days pressed down upon the sergeant, urging him to sag in relief, but he forced himself to wait a full two minutes before leaving his hiding place. It wasn't as easy to get _out_ as it had been to get _under_ the speeder. First his shoulder-bell, then his belt caught on the ragged edges of the destroyed groundspeeder and Slag had to finally give him a hand to wiggle free.

"Area looks clear, Sarge," he said as they both crouched next to the speeder.

"Looked clear when that patrol rounded the corner as well," Ramjet growled back.

They were using their armors' outer mics, which he hated, but Ramjet didn't want to risk using the comms, either. He was pretty sure that's how the clankers had found Tiller's squad.

"I hate this," Slag muttered, tapping the side of his bucket as if that would somehow rattle a clear channel out of all that static.

"What's not to hate?" Check was peering cautiously past the dumpster, one hand still on Tryout, while the other clutched his Deece. "Stranded behind enemy lines; surrounded by clankers," he kicked at a half-empty plasticup, spilling congealed caf across the rubble, "crouching in Sep filth. Just another day for the Republic's finest."

"Check," Ramjet warned. Kriff it all, he understood the trooper was running on adrenaline and nerves, but couldn't he just keep his stanging mouth _shut_ just this once?

"That's not what I meant." Slag shifted about next to his sergeant, before exploding into heated whispers. "Where's aerial support?" Slag's head jerked towards the smoky sky, then back at the retreating droid patrol. "Where's _our_ reconnaissance or some of those kriffing ARC troopers, huh? How come we didn't have a squad of commandos storming that news broadcasting station, instead of us? Where're the _Jedi_?"

Convinced they were in the clear so far, Check turned to give Tryout a quick once-over. "Banged out with Krell, or someplace more important than this bantha's backside."

"But if we'd had them - if we'd gotten the LZ properly secured from the ground _and_ the sky - more of us would have made it out of the larties. Blurr wouldn't have….or Kik, when we tried to evac."

That was a memory Ramjet would prefer not be brought back up. He didn't think he'd ever forget the sight of the last of the larties clearing the LZ, with troopers still trying to jump on, only to be blown to kriff by the Sep's anti-air cannons.

"What's Command even _thinking_?"

Ramjet needed to stop this; if not the chatter itself, then the direction it was going in. Jabbing an armored elbow into Slag's side, the sergeant signaled his trooper back into the alley - putting a bit more emphasis into the gesture than was needed.

But Slag got the message and after another quick scan of their surroundings, he scurried back into the alley; half crouching, half running. Ramjet waited to give him cover, then followed, wincing at the twinge in his ribs.

Despite his preoccupation with Tryout, Check must have noticed something of Ramjet's pain in his body language. "Is it bad, Sarge?"

"For half a building collapsing atop of me? No."

Check sighed. "You're going to be such a drag at our next bolo ball match."

"Think Krell just got impatient with us and ordered the flak on the broadcasting station?"

Ramjet cuffed Slag. "I don't want to hear that kind of noise from you, got it, Private? Now shift your backside and get _that_ ," he pointed at the mound of rubble they'd been working on before the droid patrol had sent them into hiding, "cleared."

"Yes, sir." Slag moved off sullenly, holstering his Deece as he began to finish what the squad had started; hopefully, the path they cleared through the rubble would get them out of Pesktda.

"Don't be so hard on him, Sarge." Tryout's voice was a pained croak. Leaning against the alley's side, in the filth, the trooper looked like a discarded doll, one whose limbs had been twisted about in the fall.

Ramjet could hardly look at him without going cold inside, so he took up a guard post by the edge of the dumpster instead, back to the rest of his squad, ostensibly to watch out for more patrols.

"I'm not," he growled, "but he - and the rest of you - all need to shut up and conserve your strength."

Futile as the order was, Ramjet still considered it his duty as sergeant to issue it. They were behind kriffing enemy lines! Absolute silence would have been best, but at this point, running their mouths was the only means his men had to vent steam and nervous energy. Might as well try and order a Zeltron to stay chaste.

"This thing isn't going anywhere ," Slag panted. The trooper was poised over the manhole, straining against the durasteel cover. " _Check,_ " he hissed. "I could use a hand."

"I'm _busy,_ " Check hissed back, still focused on Tryout.

"Like you _actually_ know what you're doing." The cover shifted slightly and Slag bit back a yelp of pain as his fingers got in the way. Ramjet hastily checked the area to see if anyone had heard. Cradling his abused fingers, Slag added, "You're not Pin."

"Try's not as bad as Haywire and Sling were," Check defended. "I can take care of him."

"You saying it was _Pin's_ fault they died?" Slag bristled.

Ramjet held out a hand to steady the trooper. "Slag."

"He certainly didn't _help_ them."

"They got crushed beneath five stories worth of building. There wasn't anything _left_ to help."

"Like Sureshot?"

Slag snarled and made to lunge at Check, but Ramjet grabbed the trooper by a shoulder-bell and threw him against a broken piece of masonry.

" _Enough,_ " he growled, then gasped and doubled over as his ribs screamed in agony. Check and Slag both started for their sergeant, but Ramjet waved them impatiently down.

"Enough," he said again, straightening with a wince. "You want to bring the entire vaping droid army down on us?"

His three troopers looked away, silent but sullen.

 _Yeah, because being stuck behind enemy lines isn't dire enough. Now we have to be at each other's throats._

"Pin…" Ramjet grimaced and shoved the image of his medic, stooped over Sureshot and pressing the hypo with its lethal injection of latheniol against the sniper's neck, firmly away. "Pin was the medic; it was his call. He did what he had to do."

And, really, what else could he have done? The left side of Sureshot's head had been caved in like a spoon. So Ramjet repeated what Pin had muttered to himself: "Sureshot was dead the moment that crossbeam brained him. His stupid, vaping heart just didn't know enough to stop pumping. So we're going to _stop_ talking about it and get the fek into this sewer, because I sure as hell want to get out of here alive, so I can assign each and every one of you KP duty until topatos are growing out of your ears. Clear?"

"Sir, yes, sir," they - quietly - chorused back at him.

"Good. Check, help Slag. I'll keep an eye on Try."

Obediently, his troopers did as they were told and together, Check and Slag managed to lift the heavy cover. Tryout looked on listlessly, one hand pressed against his wounded side, the other clutching his Deece.

"We're clear, Sarge," Slag said.

He and Ramjet went down first, with Check insisting on staying at Tryout's side. The injured trooper was too weak to manage the ladder, so Check had to lower him down, while Ramjet and Slag braced and caught him. They tried to be gentle, but by the time Tryout was through the manhole, he was panting and shaking. Ramjet supposed that, in the private, enclosed world of his helmet, Tryout was screaming his guts out.

"Can't we give him some pain meds?" Check asked. He was trying to keep it together, but the worry was beginning to bleed through and his hands, where they braced Try on his uninjured side, moved restlessly.

Beneath the cover of his bucket, Ramjet chewed his bottom lip. "Pin had all the meds."

"I've still got some stims," Slag offered, his tone almost conciliatory.

"Let's keep those for when we're in real trouble."

"Sarge," Check said, slinging Try's arm over his shoulder, "I think we already _are_ in 'real trouble.'"

Slag was looking up at the shaft of light coming from the manhole, then down the black sewer tunnel, shifting his grip on his blaster. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. We should try the spaceport again; snatch a ship and hightail it out of here."

"Great plan. Wonderful." Check's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Wish we'd thought of that before. Oh….wait. We did. Wanna go back and ask Pin how that went? If, that is, the clankers haven't dropped his body into a recycler by now."

"Do I have to stuff your mouths with ration bars, before you two will _shut._ The kriff. _Up_? This is the plan. We're going to follow this stinking tunnel, get out of Pesktda, lay low and recover and plan from there until the GAR launches another assault." Ramjet hauled Slag away from the ladder and the open manhole and pushed the trooper ahead. "Take lead."

Slag stumbled the first few steps, but quickly caught himself and, like a good trooper, moved out into the darkness, his feet sloshing in the ankle-deep water.

"Sarge," Tryout asked from behind as Check hauled him after Ramjet. "What if there isn't a second assault?"

 _Then we're fekked._ "Then we'll come up with something else."

The four of them moved through the darkness of the sewer in relative silence, relying on their night-vision to navigate. Water splashed beneath their boots and began to steadily rise until it was thigh-deep, which was more than Tryout had figured when they'd first come up with the plan. The current was growing more persistent as well, and if the water rose any higher, Ramjet feared they might be in real trouble. Tryout didn't have the strength to swim and certainly not the stamina to turn back.

As he walked, Ramjet kept checking the open comm channels, listening for a break in the static, for some kind of news bit that would give him a clearer picture of what was going on in Pesktda and the rest of the galaxy. The Seps' jammers had clamped down hard over sixteen hours ago, and since then, he and his men had been operating in the proverbial dark. Might be there were other squads still out there, stranded and trying to get off-planet as well. For all Ramjet knew, the Republic could be mounting a rescue mission even as they were slogging through Pesktda's rising waste. They could also be the very last Republic troopers left alive. Those clean-up squads had been _thorough._

"Shit."

A gurgle from a set of pipes and Slag's resulting hiss of disgust tore Ramjet out of his brooding. He whirled around - he'd taken point, while Slag covered their rear - Deece already raised and aiming.

But all he saw in the green wash of his night-vision was Check and Tryout, the latter braced against the sewer's wall, both doing as the sergeant did...and Slag, shaking off a thick sludge of liquid off his arm.

Through the night-vision filters, that sludge was a deep emerald green, almost pretty, but Ramjet didn't doubt that seen through a pair of organic eyes, the stuff would be thick and _brown._

"Really stepped in it, didn't you, Slag?" Check joked weakly.

Slag just continued shaking his arm, no doubt glaring at his squadmate from behind the helmet. "More like it rained down on me."

"Cut the wisecracks," Ramjet ordered. "You want every clanker in the vicinity to know we're here?"

"Why would the clankers be down _here_?" Slag demanded.

"Because _we are_ ," Ramjet explained and the squad fell silent once more.

After another five minutes, Tryout finally croaked, "I hear something."

They stopped. Ramjet strained his ears, but it was hard to hear anything over the gushing sewage that raced past their legs. He could hear tiny feet scurrying past - some type of rodent, no doubt - but nothing else…

"I hear it, too." Check said. "Sounds like…"

"Footsteps," Slag finished.

"Check, stay with Tryout and guard our rear." Ramjet kept his voice low, barely above a whisper. "Slag, with me."

The two troopers moved forward, Deeces sweeping before them. The good thing about fighting an enemy that used to be part of your government, was that information used to be pooled in one central area and being the bureaucracy that it was, the Republic had been stringent about collecting and storing certain types of Intel - such as building codes, city blueprints and, yes, even the layout of sewer systems. Before beginning the assault, all such Intel about Garqi had been uploaded to the clones' HUDs, which meant Ramjet and his men couldn't get lost. It also meant that any Sep officer with half a brain could figure out likely hiding places and escape routes for stranded clones.

Ramjet was fully prepared for an ambush, so when a dark green shadow suddenly split off from the wall in one of the curving slants of the tunnel, he jumped forward, ramming the butt of his blaster approximately where a humanoid neck would be.

There was a grunt and then a splash as the figure went to its knees in the stream of sewage.

"Hands on your head and _stay down_." Slag kept the muzzle of his Deece pointed at the organic's head for a quick, clean kill.

The figure complied, its movements slow and deliberate as it folded its hands above its head.

Furry fingers, Ramjet realized as his night-vision recovered from their hasty movements and gave him details once more.

"At ease, troopers," the figure said in a voice that was reedy, but quietly authoritative. The figure turned its head, just enough for Ramjet to get a clear look at his profile.

The sergeant caught his breath. " _You_."

The Bothan blinked up at him, calm despite having two blasters pointed at his head. "Me," he agreed, amiably enough given the circumstances.

Ramjet couldn't believe it. Without a doubt this was the same Bothan Command had foisted on them last-minute during the scramble to the gunships. Ramjet had totally forgotten about their unwanted passenger as soon as they'd hit Garqi's atmo and was more than a little surprised to find the man still alive - and _here._

"Sarge," Slag hadn't lowered his weapon, but his tone was questioning, "is this…"

"It is," the Bothan answered, before Ramjet could. His ears had swiveled towards the sound of Slag's voice, but his eyes remained fixed on Ramjet. "General Krell was so kind as to assign me a seat on your LAAT/i, trooper. Quite the bumpy insert, I have to say."

Well, that confirmed ID, as far as Ramjet was concerned. He gestured and Slag holstered his blaster to help the Bothan back on his feet.

"Apologies, sir, for the rough handling."

"No need, I quite understand." The Bothan pulled out a large rectangle of cloth from a pocket and began fastidiously wiping at the worst of the sewage stains on his coveralls. Ramjet couldn't be sure through the green-tinge of the night-vision, but he thought it was the same grey, all-purpose coveralls he'd worn in the larty.

Surprisingly, the Bothan turned his head to look _straight at_ Slag. "These are dangerous times and caution is the better part of valor."

 _It's pitch dark and he doesn't have any NVGs,_ Ramjet thought. _How does he know where we are?_ For that matter, how had he identified them so quickly as clone troopers?

Back on the _Preserver,_ Ramjet had been given strict orders _not_ to ask questions about the mystery passenger. But the _Preserver_ and all his commanders were long gone and Ramjet was tired of stumbling around in the dark. He wanted _answers,_ even if those answers weren't mission-critical at the moment.

"With all due respect, sir, _who_ are you?"

The Bothan contemplated the piece of cloth for a moment, before letting it drop, to be carried away by the flowing sewage. "Agent Karka Tr'ansom." His voice was so quiet, you had to strain to hear it. "Republic Intelligence."

 _RI?_ Ramjet and Slag exchanged a look.

"What is a Rep Intel agent doing here?" Ramjet asked.

"Providence, mostly, and the rest, I fear, is classified."

Need to know. Alright, Ramjet could deal with that. "But what are you doing _here_ , sir?" The sergeant gestured at the surrounding sewer before realizing that Tr'ansom wouldn't be able to see the gesture.

But the agent must have deduced his meaning from his tone. "Same as you, no doubt. Getting out of Pesktda." Something like a smile flitted across the Bothan's equine face. "What better place for a spook to travel than the shadows?"

Ramjet had no answer to that, but Tr'ansom, it seemed, had questions of his own.

"I must admit, trooper, I am somewhat surprised to find _you_ here. I would have thought…" He trailed off, as if reluctant to give voice to the rest.

"We missed the evac," Slag answered. "Same as you, sir."

"Oh, I didn't miss the evacuation. Your general allowed me passage on his ship, but I was quite aware that leaving Garqi would be my concern alone. After all, I could not be certain how long my mission would take and it would have been impolite to stall the good General Krell in his….need to regroup with the Republic's main forces."

Ramjet wasn't sure he'd ever heard a retreat phrased in quite such terms before, but the rest of the agent's words were clear enough.

"Sir, you have a means of getting off-planet?" Hope sprang up in him, as refreshing as eight hours' sleep in his bunk.

"My contact should be waiting for me at our RV-point, with a ship, if everything goes as planned. It's a bit of a walk though; all the way to the Vlassy Nature Preserve."

More than eight-hundred klicks southeast of Pesktda. More than just a bit, but it was eight-hundred klicks closer to a ship than they'd been for the past two days.

"Slag, go get Check and Tryout."

Tr'ansom watched Slag move away and Ramjet once more wondered how the Bothan managed to see in the absolute darkness of the sewers, when he saw the ears atop the agent's head rotate.

Of course. Bothan vision might be equal to that of most Humans, but their hearing was far superior.

"There's more of you?" Tr'ansom asked.

"Two, sir, and one of my men is wounded. You wouldn't have to have a medkit on you? We lost our medic."

"I do, though I would suggest reaching topside before administering to your wounded comrade. Our current surroundings are less than sanitary."

"Yes, sir." Ramjet shifted as they waited for the other three troopers, but the silence felt too thick and he was too tense from the last few hours to keep it up. "Your mission was a success, sir?" he finally asked.

"It was," the Bothan answered simply.

That seemed to require some follow-up, so Ramjet offered, "I'm sure the Republic will be grateful for your services, Agent Tr'ansom."

Again, the Bothan's eyes pinned him down with eerie accuracy. Through his NV-setting, the agent's outline was a light green shimmer that shifted with the gentle rippling of his fur.

"My employers generally are, trooper."

* * *

 _The_ Mockingbird, _enroute to Garqi_

Ro paused on the ladderway down from the cockpit, one foot on the final rung, the bare toes of the other poised just above the deck plates. With the studious dedication a meteorologist might devote to his instruments before declaring sunny skies or crying out storm warnings, she took stock of the emotional atmosphere within her ship.

 _Cloudy,_ she decided, tasting the hot ozone of _anger_ against her tongue, and the clouds were building, stacking up to towering black thunderheads. But mayhaps, she could head off the threatening storm, distract Wren and break him out of this cycle he was so fixated on….

Ro shrieked as something cold and wet pressed against the arch of her naked foot.

"Poorsa!"

A wedge-shaped head followed the wet nose out from beneath the galley table. At the sound of its name, the strill pup gave a sheepish yip and wiggled its long body towards its mistress, the six legs scraping noisily over the deck plates.

Sighing with exasperation, Ro stepped off the ladder and crouched by her new pet.

"Think you're mono jokester, don'tcha fluffball?"

Another yip and the enthusiastic thumping of a thin tail that sent vibrations through the strill's entire body. The sight never failed to amuse Ro. At nine weeks, the pup's body was about as long as Ro's forearm and rangy at that, with masses of loose folds of skin and grey fur. Equipped with a tail nearly as long as the entire strill, the overall effect was one of adorable misproportion.

Ro crooked her fingers invitingly and Poorsa leaped at her, washing her hand with a long, lolling tongue. The pup would have washed _all_ of her, if given half the chance, but the leash tied to one table leg thwarted those efforts.

Smiling indulgently, Ro ran her free hand over the strill's spine and down its sides, feeling the knobs of vertebrae and the curve of ribs press against her palm.

Two weeks of good care and better feeding weren't enough to erase the signs of neglect and abuse Poorsa had suffered in its short life, but Ro thought it was more than her wishful thinking that the pup was finally putting on some fat. There was more elasticity to the folds of loose skin, and the short stubble of fur beneath her fingers was definitely less coarse, with the glossy grey shine of a freshly-minted starship, rather than the dull grey of a winter sky.

"Getting there," Ro said to the galley walls, jiggling the pup a little to get a better sense of its weight. "Still a long parsec off the habor port, though."

Bored with licking fingers, Poorsa began to squirm in place, whining pitifully as it fixed its golden eyes first on Ro, then the leash.

Ro laughed. "Uhhh, can those eyes get any bigger? Did you learn your lesson then, or do we gotta go have a visit to the dumpling maker?"

Ro and Wren had raced back to the ship, ready to blow thrusters on Nerrif, only to find Poorsa and Artee chasing each other through the cargo hold, shrieking at the top of their combined lungs. The story, according to Artee, was that the strill had tried to establish dominance over the droid by tinkling over his treads, an action to which her persnickety astromech had been less than receptive.

If they hadn't been midship of making like a donut and rolling out of Admiral Meldorne's yelling range, Ro might have joined in the merry chase. As it was, discipline had had to come before giggles.

But with Poorsa giving her the most _perfect_ puppy-eyes, Ro figured she'd better relent before she was reduced to a gushing pool of squeak-pitched baby talk.

As soon as the strill felt the slack in the leash, Poorsa began a frantic six-legged jig. Ro caught the pup and hoisted it up against her chest before the strill could scramble up the ladder to the cockpit to finish its ' _business_ ' with Artee. She really didn't feel like crashing into a black hole while her astromech was having the in-laws of all fits.

Ro laughed as the pup almost immediately began to squirm in her arms, but kept her hold as she rose to her feet.

"Nuhuh," she said and held the wriggling pup at arm's length. "You're supposed to be a big, bad _ferocious_ bewilderbeast. Least you can do after having me stuff that bottomless gullet a'yours is act my fluff-shield and turn those googoo peekers on _Wren._ "

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and tucked the unprotesting strill beneath one arm.

Time to face the storm.

Ro wondered if the medkit included a lightning rod.

* * *

Wren's first visit had been to the 'fresher, to wipe the worst of the blood off his face and hands. None of his cuts or other wounds were serious enough to warrant medical attention, so he simply pulled his bodyglove back on and picked up where he'd left off back at the station.

Booze. Blood. No broads, though, this time.

He snorted at the thought.

Fine by him. As far as he was concerned, his hand was a lot less trouble, though a whole kriffing less exciting.

Since discovering a liking for the drink - and Ro's liberality towards his grocery requests - Wren had always made sure to keep a bottle of Menkooro whiskey stashed away on the ship. He took a long pull from that bottle now, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before returning to beating the _poodoo_ out of the punching bag.

The cargo hold made for a shitty gym, crowded as it was with a month's worth of supplies, but at least the sound system was good. Heavy Isotope blared out of the speakers, loud - as the music was intended to be played - so that the bass line thrummed through his bones in sync with his heartbeat.

Blanketed by the sound and the alcohol, it was easy to lose himself in the rhythm of punch and jab, in the feeling of flesh against weighted sand covered by cured leather.

The sweat running down his bare torso burned in the open cuts, just like his muscles burned from the continued abuse, but that was good - it complimented the burn of the whiskey and his anger.

Then, mid-punch, the music abruptly cut off.

"Fardling kark of all Nine effing Hells." He whirled, teeth already bared, and found Ro leaning against the cargo bay's hatch, the strill at her feet.

She flashed him one of her dazzling smiles. "I _love it_ when you talk dirty."

"Then you'll fekking love this," he spat back. "Turn the kriffing music the fek back on and your _crinking_ ass the stang back around."

The smile never left her face, but it sharpened as she tilted her head slightly back to get a better angle on his face. Ro had a smile for every occasion, he'd found.

"I can groove to the sound, but convos' better held at civilized decibel levels. No never fear though, Cookie. I'm proof certain shouting will commence just as if the music were on."

"Fek off, _cheeka._ "

"Lovely sentiment. I can see why you like to repeat it."

One thing about Ro that truly annoyed the kriff out of him was that he could never tell when she was being sarcastic. It would have made shouting at her _so_ much easier.

She caught sight of the bottle of Menkooro and cocked her head to the side. "Me, I'm just a wee bit of a fem, new to the art of war, but is it wise to go on a souse when enroute to major plasma exchanges?"

"I'm a fekking clone, _cheeka_ ," he said, wiping sweat off his brow and cheeks. "Faster metabolism, remember? My body metabolizes ethanol at twice the rate of the average mongrel." He gave her a smile of his own, one full of mockery and enough edges to cut through durasteel. "The beauty of dying twice as fast. Never let it be kriffing said that the long-necks didn't give the cannon fodder a few perks along the way." He grabbed the bottle, inclining it towards her in a toast, before drinking.

Poorsa looked up at its mistress and yipped, as if to ask for confirmation of his words, but Ro remained quiet. She was _watching_ him in that way she had that made his skin crawl, like he was an encryption code she was half-done decoding.

Fekking glowsaber jockeys.

The _look_ disappeared almost as quickly as it had come and in typical Ro-fashion, she blurted out, "You should be writing me a thank you holo-card."

Three months of partnership had helped accustom Wren to these abrupt shifts in topic and he kept his verbal footing.

"Fierfek," he drawled, screwing the cap back onto the whiskey bottle, "left my stylus in my other kriffing pocket."

She wrinkled her little button nose at this, studying the bodyglove he wore. "Does that even _have_ pockets? I mean, aside from where the material is indecently cupping the forms of your swoon-inducing masculine flesh-bod."

"You're a kriffing walking sexual harassment suit, you know that, _cheeka_?"

"Oh, that's prime swell, coming from the masc with _multiple_ assault and battery charges on his buff _choobies._ "

Ah, they'd finally gotten to the crux of the matter.

Wren guffawed. " _You're_ fekked off that _I_ got into a fight, after _you_ sabotaged a fraggin' Republic vessel _and_ stole a vaping mission?"

"It was a shuttle, not a vessel," she corrected haughtily. "And I don't give two bits of skin off my neb about the fight. You can collect teeth and bruises to your pumping organ's content, Cookie. Whatever gives you the happies." She tossed her head back, sending the heavy curtain of her hair flying. "What I do give a squat-diddly about is that you almost wookieenated that poor bunk."

He didn't have a fekking idea what a 'bunk' was, but he got her drift and didn't care for it. He'd been semi-successful in pushing that particular aspect of his stay on Nerrif out of his mind and didn't appreciate her bringing it up again. Especially not in that _tone._

He turned his back on her, going back to the punching bag, because at least it was solid and _there_ and could take his punishment without snot and blood and pleading for mercy.

Wren's arms pistoned out, meeting the punching bag with meaty _thwacks_. "He fekking deserved it," he bit out in-between.

"Just because you're a jerk doesn't mean you deserve an appointment with your Maker. If that were the case, Cookie, you'd already be marching towards the big glowy spot."

He turned his head sharply at that, missing the return swing of the punching bag. The heavy bag landed a solid blow on a bruise high up on his ribs, where the fraggin' bartender droid had crashed down on him. He fell back with a sharp intake of breath.

Small hands caught him by the shoulders, trying to steady him - to _help_. Wren jerked away from Ro's touch, turning on her, one fist already cocked to deliver the blow.

In that instant, as anger and humiliation coalesced into a dangerous, heated swirl, even Wren couldn't guess whether the threat was genuine or a mere warning to back off.

But Ro merely glanced at his balled fist before _tsking_ softly to herself _,_ as if he were some youngling ineffectually threatening an adult in the midst of a temper tantrum and not a soldier trained and bred for war and murder, towering a good head and a half above her slender frame.

Fek, she was so kriffing _infuriating._

"Put your 'tude in reverse, Cookie and park your tight keister there abouts." She pointed at a stack of crates. "It's ticky-time seeing to your gathered ouches."

"I'm fine," he snapped. "Soon as I swat the annoying little _gnatfly_ buzzing the frag about my head."

This time, she _laughed._ "Uhhh, Cookie, that how you sweet-talk all the fems into your bed? Please assure me you at least pop a sparklemint or six before laying it on with that potty mouth."

How could someone so kriffing small be such a giant pain in his ass? Not for the first time was he caught in the moment, left to stare at this barvy little Jedi as he tried to decide whether to snap her neck or tear out his own hair. Not an hour ago he'd beaten four men bloody, and she shrugged off the threat of his wrath as if it were a fraggin' joke!

She managed to grip his wrist and maneuver him towards the crates only because he'd been too caught up in his own musings. He wrenched free with a curse, but could already tell he wasn't going to escape the situation with the same ease. Ro might be the silliest, barviest twit this side of the known galaxy, but she matched him in stubbornness and her determination could be downright awe inspiring - and he'd cut out his own tongue and serve it to a Hutt before _ever_ admitting that out loud.

Apparently he'd taken too long, because Ro raised one eyebrow at him. "Cookie, either sit and let us play Republic Medcenter or be prepared to never enjoy another stiff chaka noodle in your lifespan."

His hackles went up at the threat, but at this point, he knew he'd been outmaneuvered. Ro was well capable of threatening his libido and devious enough to pull it off. He sat on the crate next to the one she'd pointed at.

Ro rolled her eyes theatrically at this display of contrariness, but turned to Poorsa instead of commenting.

"'Kay, Poorsa, your turn. Get the medkit." She pointed at the little box situated next to a bulkhead. "Get the medkit, Poorsa."

The strill looked up at her with adoring eyes, panting slightly, whip-like tail thumping the deck plates.

Wren snorted. "I see the training's going well."

"Oh, you be quiet." She gave it another try, but the strill just continued to look at her uncomprehendingly. Finally, Ro threw her hands up in defeat. "I gotta do _everything_ around here."

The strill yipped, as if agreeing and Wren had to hide the beginnings of a smile behind one hand.

Ro shot him a glare, no doubt feeling his amusement through the Force, before stomping over to retrieve the medkit. A toolbox served her as an impromptu seat when she came back.

Silence settled over the cargo hold as Ro took his face in one hand, critically turning it this way and that as she studied the damage he'd sustained.

Already annoyed again, Wren said, "Just fekking scratches. I've had worse."

"Uh huh. Betcha those uniformed mascs back on Nerrif can't say the same."

For a moment, Wren saw the louie's - Steffen's - face again; pale and eyes wide with shock as Wren's arm pressed into his neck, so utterly fekking terrified. His eyes shifted to study a bulkhead, suddenly no longer able to withstand Ro's teal-eyed scrutiny.

"You need to put some bacta on those wounds," she said and added when he made as if to protest, "Best be prettied up rather than dented when we hit Garqi dirtside, Cookie. Colorful ouches draw the eye and stick in memory." She tested the edge of a scratch along his jawline, where the louie's frantic nails had gauged the skin. "You wanna talk about it?" she asked quietly.

"No."

A frown flitted over her face, but didn't linger. They generally never did; Ro's face was made for smiles.

Her hands slid from his face, down over his arms and chest.

Her touch was not sensual. Her hands were not those of a woman exploring the firmness of his muscles, nor relishing in the warmth of his skin as she decided which patch to taste first. But neither was hers the touch of a medic; impersonal, a little impatient and always hurried. Ro's touch was….. _Ro_ : soft and questing, surprisingly gentle for such an ebullient person. He had no fekking clue what to make of it. She liked to touch, he'd figured that out quickly enough, but her touches were so far outside his experience that he could rarely discern the meaning behind them.

He could tell whenever she felt a bruise beneath the material of his bodyglove, because her hands would pause, linger, as if memorizing the place before moving on. When she reached his hands, she took them in her own, delicately running the pads of her fingers over the swollen, raw knuckles and the torn skin of his palms.

That damage, he noted, hadn't come from the fight, but from his session with the punching bag. He'd been hitting the leather so hard, the pain hadn't registered; but then, he'd spent most of his life pushing through pain.

"Why do you do this to yourself, Wren?"

She wasn't looking at him when she asked, which made it easier to study her expression in turn. Ro's face was pensive as she continued to run her fingers over his scarred, bloodied hands. Under the lights of the cargo bay, her normally bright teal eyes had taken on a darker shade of blue, like the ocean on Kamino just when the clouds were starting to block out the sun. He struggled to name the emotion behind her thoughtfulness, but the best he could come up with was….sad. And that didn't make any kriffing sense, because why should she be sad over a few torn strips of skin? Fek knew he'd beaten his hands bloodier on other occasions, against durasteel and rock and anything else that would withstand the abuse.

His jaw flexed, tightened. He didn't like the direction his thoughts were turning. Fek her for pushing them down that path. "If you're so effing sure a few bruises will offend the locals' sensitivities, then just shut the fek up, Ro, and kriffing fix them already."

She met his eyes then, and though they narrowed in annoyance, that tinge of blue was still present. "Wren, there's other ways to work through your anger. I could help-"

He yanked his hands out of her loose grip as if burned, standing so fast that the crate rocked back and forth beneath him. "Stay the fek out of my vaping head, _cheeka_!"

The violence of his outburst caught both her and the strill by surprise. Ro reared back, the medkit clattering off her lap and onto the deck plates, scaring the strill so that the animal scrambled backwards, barking hoarsely, before finally stepping on its own, too-long tail and promptly falling ass-over-snout.

"Wren, I wasn't….You know I _can't_ …."

He wouldn't let her finish; if he did, she'd likely say something that would really enrage him - or worse, force him to analyze his own feelings again.

He leaned down towards her, teeth bared in a snarl. "I don't need some fekking saber-bitch or a karking minder, Ro, so back the _kriff off._ "

The startled hurt that had first appeared on her face quickly turned to anger. Her eyes flashed, banishing the deep blue, turning a sharper green and he was glad - so pathetically fekking glad - to see the change. Anger he could handle, but looking at that nameless emotion for much longer would have caused the bile to rise in his throat.

"Alright then." She stooped to snatch up the medkit, thrusting it into his stomach hard enough to knock the air out of him. "Have it your way, buckethead. Zey authorized us for the Garqi mission, in case you were interested. No more blue milk runs for us if we get this right." Her eyes narrowed as she thrust out her round, stubborn chin at him in challenge. " _You're welcome,_ by the way. ETA's six hours, so try and get yourself looking civilized by then. If we get picked up by local badges on accounting of your abstract body art, I'll be very unhappy." She leaned in further as well, standing on tiptoe so they were nose-to-nose. "And I won't be subtle about it, Cookie."

He almost shivered. He'd seen Ro's brand of subtle and he'd also seen her wrath in action. The combination wasn't something a sane being would want to face.

She spun on her heels, her long hair slapping him in the face as she strode out of the cargo hold, head high and back proudly straight. The effect would have been more intimidating if it hadn't been for the pink tunic.

Wren looked from the medkit to his partner's retreating back. He'd neither expected her outburst, nor her sudden retreat. Ro had _never_ before abandoned a fight with him.

"Where the _gfersh_ are you going?"

"Meditating," she snapped, hands on hips as she pointedly stared at him from over her shoulder. "Least one of us needs to have his mental underwear drawer in alphabetical order before we land, seeing as the brass is counting the odds against us already."

She whistled for Poorsa and the strill came bounding up, obviously only too happy to leave the tension of the cargo bay behind.

"Ro."

He caught her just as she was about to slip out of the hatchway, one hand against the frame as she paused, waiting, but didn't turn around this time.

Wren scowled at her back, the scarred corner of his mouth curling down, but he had to know. "What's so fekking special about this mission? Zey's been giving us the effing soft tour for weeks and you've never uttered a single damn word of complaint. So why the kriff now?"

She shifted where she stood, and strands of her hair slid over her shoulder, down her back, creating a gap in the curtain of hair that had previously hid her face from him. Through that gap, Wren caught a glimpse of the soft curve of one cheek, the vulnerable arch of her full lips and the flash of a single, downcast teal eye. And a question, just a stray thought, really - one he hadn't thought of since those endless hours they'd spent trapped underground on Gaftikar - recurred to him with inexplicable force: _Are you lonely, Ro?_

"I saw a chance," she murmured. "And I wasn't about to let it slip away."


	9. Darklight

**Chapter Nine: Darklight**

 _"To be Jedi is to face the truth, and choose. Give off light, or darkness, Padawan. Be a candle, or the night, Padawan: but choose!"_

 _-_ Grand Master Yoda to Padawan Whie Malreux

* * *

 _Later…_

Breathe in…..

 _The crystal is the heart of the blade._

Breathe out….

 _The heart is the crystal of the Jedi._

Ro's crystals - her two halves of one heart - were twin shards of purple, veined with darkest blue, like a bruised dawn after a cleansing rain.

 _The Jedi is the crystal of the Force._

And she could _feel_ the Force. It was a song - a symphony of instruments and harmonies that surpassed description and all definitions of beauty - and it shivered through her blood, inviting her to dance to its melody.

 _The Force is the blade of the heart._

 _All are intertwined._

She could see that. Not with her physical eyes, but with a dreamer's internal sight. The Force; the lightsabers; the Jedi. Golden threads - the Force, manifest - stretched from her, to her sabers and back in an endless loop.

 _The crystal, the blade, the Jedi._

Steeped within the meditative trance, Ro's breathing did not alter from its steady rhythm. The Force breathed with her, its song gentling to match the beating of her heart; the pulse of her twin lightsabers' crystals. Or did they adjust their rhythm to that of the Force? It was impossible to tell.

 _We are one._

She could see them in her mind, those golden threads twining around her lightsabers and into their crystalline heart. Slowly, ever so slowly, Ro pictured the golden threads tightening, shortening, as if being taken up by a spool, with her at its center. In her mind's eye, she could see the threads wind themselves tighter around her heart; her sabers would follow, drawn by the connection, hovering a few inches above the deck plates of her cabin.

Her lightsabers would come to her, because - _the crystal, the blade, the Jedi_ \- they were one and breathed to the sound of the same song.

She could _see_ it.

The Force shivered; the sensation was no more than a feather ghosting past her cheek, its edges barely brushing the skin.

She didn't reach out to capture the sensation as she'd done as an Initiate in the Temple, impatient and confused with herself and the exercise.

Ro waited and listened to the Force sing; the sight of her sabers floating to her running through her mind like a holovid on repeat.

Breathe in…..

For one brief moment, she was part of a glorious perfection: her blood replaced by golden fire; her heartbeat the baseline to the Force's song.

It was over with the next exhale. As if her breath were an autumnal wind, the harmonies vibrating her bones were blown apart, taking with them the ghostly touch of distant feathers and leaving her... _bereft_.

Ro gasped, jolted out of her meditation, one hand flying to cover her suddenly pounding heart.

The lumen globes in her cabin were too bright - and altogether too dim - and she bent double over her crossed legs, eyes squeezed tightly shut against that travesty of light….when just seconds before she'd _bathed_ in a glory that would have put a super nova to shame.

Bent over double, with her loose hair falling around her like a blanket, Ro grit her teeth and bit back the tears lurking in the corners of her eyes, the sob working its way up her throat.

She didn't even have to look up to know that her lightsabers were still an arms length away from her - _exactly_ where she'd left them at the start of the exercise.

It wasn't _fair_!

Why did the Force have to...to _tease_ her with these glimpses of beauty and power, only to snatch it all away again? Why had she been made Force-sensitive at all, when the Force wouldn't even allow her to succeed in the most basic, _simplest_ of exercises? Sweet gooey crumblebuns, _crèchelings_ could manage a simple levitation!

And for one petulant moment, Ro was overcome with the urge to throw herself on the floor and pound her fists and feet against the deck plates and scream out her frustrations.

The face of her former créche-instructor, Jedi Master Du Mahn, round and kind, flashed before her eyes and with it came a memory, as vivid as it was distant:

 _Ro was three and she was screaming for all she was worth, face gone crimson with the effort. While the rest of her year-mates huddled in one corner of the créche, Ro was trying to pound the floor beneath her into dust with the power of her chubby fists and bare feet alone._

 _Blue and white skirts swirled into her bleary field of vision and a cowled face peered down at the yowling child from a towering height._

 _The sight of an adult only galvanized her growing fury and Ro threw herself with everything she had into what was a tantrum of truly epic proportions._

 _It wasn't until she'd screamed herself hoarse and exhausted that Master Du Mahn calmly knelt before her charge, meeting watery teal eyes with her own stern blue ones. Archly, the Jedi instructor said, "Have you finished venting steam like a ruptured starship, Roweena? You've achieved an astounding resemblance to an over-boiled topato, but that is quite all."_

Over seventeen years later, Ro could no longer remember just what had sparked that towering fit of rage, but she could still vividly recall her younger self, sprawled, sweaty and slackjawed on the créche floor, gaping up at a remarkably composed Master Du Mahn in her best impression of a hooked gooberfish.

Ro's body uncoiled and she threw her head back and laughed, her pique evaporating in an instant.

At the sound of her bright, ringing laughter, Poorsa wiggled out from beneath the mess of blankets and pillows that was Ro's bunk, where the strill had taken a nap. Recognizing that the boring sitting-thing was over, the pup gave a sharp yip and leapt from the bunk, but its long tail caught on the edge of the frame and sent it tumbling to the deck plates off-balance.

Seeing her pet reduced to a flailing mass of legs and tail, Ro fell over backwards, frantically clutching her belly as she howled with laughter.

Obviously sensing that this latest bout of ridicule was directed its way, Poorsa flopped onto its hindquarters to give its mistress a look out of reproachful golden eyes. This only spurred Ro on even more, and the pup gave a disgusted snort before turning away, catching sight of the clawmouse-shaped incense holder instead. Instantly, the strill's grey rump came up, its long tail lashed the air once, before the animal pounced….Only to cleanly miss its target.

The pup gave a startled yip as its claws nicked the incense holder, before crashing into the lightsabers laid out neatly next to it.

"Poorsa!" Ro leapt forward, legs still awkwardly crossed from her meditation, and managed to catch the incense holder before it could shatter. There was no saving her lightsabers, though and the Jedi winced as the hilts screeched against the deck plates, clattering and tumbling under the strill's weight.

Still stretched out on her belly, Ro made a grab for the strill's wriggling tail, earning herself a startled yip and snapping teeth as soon as the pup felt the tug on the appendage.

Having the little animal about certainly kept her limber, Ro thought, wryly amused as her quick fingers evaded fangs, sharp despite their youth. She got a grip on the loose folds of skin at Poorsa's neck, turning onto her back and sitting back up as she hauled the struggling strill pup onto her lap, all in a single, fluid motion.

"No," she told the pup sternly as Poorsa made another attempt on her fingers. It didn't matter that the strill was still the size of a tooka cat - a _scrawny_ tooka cat, at that - those jaws were powerful enough to snap her fingers clean off. She repeated the order in Dantari, " _tak_ ," underlining her displeasure with a quick smack to the strill's snout. The blow was loud, rather than hard, but coupled with a quick, disapproving blast from the Force, it was enough to cow the animal.

Giving a low whine, Poorsa cringed; tail tucked between its hindquarters, it tried to burrow into Ro's lap.

Her annoyance with the strill pup instantly vanished. With a soft smile, Ro gently patted Poorsa, paying extra careful attention to the wiggling, wet nose.

"There's a good little fluffball," she crooned. "Only naughty wee bits of fluffy snap and you're not naughty, are you, Poorsa?"

The strill whined again and pushed its nose into her palm, the ridiculously long tail giving a tentative wag.

Ro's smile brightened as she cuddled her pet reassuringly. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Poorsa gave her face a good, long lick, causing Ro to shriek with surprised laughter. The last of the gloom that had weighed her down, and which had driven her to her cabin and meditation in the first place, dispelled itself.

All that remained now was the lingering sting of Zey's doubts.

Scratching behind Poorsa's ears, Ro looked about for her lightsabers, finding them pushed to the edge of her bunk.

The sight of them caused her smile to waver slightly, but not to disappear.

She so desperately wanted to prove to Zey, to the whole Order, that she _was_ a Jedi; lock, stock and emitter shroud. But she wasn't going to do it with her levitation skills.

Ro'd made her peace with her limitations in the Jedi arts years ago - more or less - and had carefully shaped and cultivated her Force-empathy into a powerful and useful tool. But that didn't keep her from trying to hone what simply wasn't there, and she kept prodding at the wound with the persistence of a child tonguing the freshly vacated space of a baby tooth, just to see if the unnatural emptiness had yet been filled.

Eyes still on her twin lightsabers, Ro pressed Poorsa close to her chest, inhaling the sharp musk of the strill's short fur. Every failure hurt - but it was starting to hurt a little less with every passing year.

"Guess that means I'm growing up," she mused.

Poorsa, uninterested in any philosophy but that which bestowed treats upon small animals, capitalized on her distraction and squirmed out of her grip to flounder onto the deck plates.

With its characteristic sharp yips, the pup bounded across the cabin, scratching plaintively at the closed door. The strill had had more than enough of containment for this day.

"Alright, alright," she said with a laugh, raising her hands in surrender. "Point taken in and awarded. Enough backside-sitting." She rose with unconscious grace from her cross-legged pose on the floor, stretching luxuriously, before shaking out her long mass of platinum blond hair.

Ignoring Poorsa's impatient whine, Ro idly fingered her emerald-colored bangs.

"Hmmmm. Bouts time and oodles tickies past for a redecorative change. Green's so last mission, whatcha think, Poorsa?"

The pup yipped and continued its assault on her door, uncaring of matters of hair or style.

Ro grinned, scooping up her lightsabers, before pushing the strill out of her way with one bare foot.

New mission; new hair. She was going to invade Garqi with _style._

* * *

 _Aboard the_ Invisible Hand

Breathe out….

 _Peace is a lie, there is only passion._

Breathe in…..

 _Through passion, I gain strength._

The words held the sweet clarity of truth.

In the darkness of his cabin, Savage Opress breathed in the heavy air, his nostril flaring and his upper lip slightly curling; tasting the validity of the Sith's mantra.

Passion was a force he was intimately familiar with; a fire he recognized from the past that lingered beneath the shrouding green mist of Mother Talzin's magick.

Passion burned within his veins and warmed his bones and sinew even on the coldest Dathomir night. And it had been that fire - that _passion_ \- that had made him stand tall and proud over the wounded body of his brother…..

The green mist thickened, coiled and Savage instinctively shied away from the memory.

 _Through passion, I gain strength._

Despite his name, Feral had never been possessed of a warrior's fire and as a consequence, he'd been weak. Not so his brother. Savage _burned_ , his every breath stoking the flames. Even sitting cross-legged on the cold floor of his cabin, the powerful muscles of his body flexed beneath the heavy armor. The hands that were loosely folded on his knees could snap a man's neck; crush the life out of him - as they'd done with that weakling, Feral.

 _Through strength, I gain power._

He breathed in, his chest straining against the dark armor as he did so. Slowly, with a barely perceptible tremble, the double-bladed lightsaber rose from the floor. He kept his eyes closed, but could feel the weapon's deep hum resonate in his mind as it came to stop level with his face.

Deep in concentration, Savage growled. The twin ends of the lightsaber ignited and bathed his face in their red light. He could see it even behind his closed lids; feel the heat tighten the skin over his skull.

He breathed in deeply, the air hot and heavy with ozone as the weapon thrummed, the deadly blades mere inches from his skin.

The power was a raging inferno deep in his belly - demanding freedom; promising destruction. His Master spoke of control - of binding that power to will and discipline. But how could he be expected to be satisfied with a single drink of that power, with the smoke of a scorched landscape searing his nostrils and the screams of his enemies ringing in his ears?

In answer to his thoughts, the lightsaber's pitch intensified.

Slowly, almost reverently, Savage opened his eyes to let himself bask in the weapon's red glow - the single bloody point of illumination in the entire cabin. In the darkness, the twin beams of plasma seemed to stretch infinitely, to thrust and disappear into the shadows.

He could feel - _taste_ \- the power of the lightsaber's twin crystal heart.

 _Through power, I gain victory._

He'd yet to test that theory.

On Devaron, he'd had no lightsaber, but killed a Jedi Knight and his Padawan with nothing but his pike and strength.

But what else could he have done - what heights could he have achieved - if he'd been armed with a lightsaber at the Temple of Eedit? The dark side had been there, his for the taking, but he'd been without a focus that day.

He had his focus now. Nothing could stand in his way.

 _Through victory, my chains are broken._

His gaze dropped from the lightsaber to his hands. As if from a great distance, he watched his fingers curl...curl….until they were tight fists, the nails digging into the flesh of his palms. His breathing hitched, the rhythm broke and the lightsaber abruptly shut off. Savage was once more left in total darkness. But behind his hooded gaze, the green mists of dark side magick swirled and tightened in their endless spirals.

Absently, his voice nothing but a deep rumble, Savage spoke the last line of the mantra aloud: "The Force shall free me."

He had the Force; with every breath he was scorched with its cold fury.

But he was an instrument - a weapon as much as the lightsaber - serving two masters; destined to betray one to precipitate the revenge of the other.

And that was…. _not_ freedom.

The coils of green mist abruptly lashed out, stinging his thoughts and the Zabrak flinched. The lightsaber dropped and thudded heavily into his waiting hands. It never ceased to surprise him, just _how_ heavy the weapon was.

"Lord Opress." A droid's tinny voice broke through the darkness, accompanied by a rush of static from the ship's internal speakers. "We are approaching Garqi. ETA five minutes, mark. Prepare for jump to realspace."

The Zabrak shook his head to dispel the last lingering flashes of pain. One hand came up to rub at his eyes. What had he been thinking of before the droid's squawk had interrupted him?

 _Power. Victory. The Force._ He needed to succeed on his mission to Garqi in order to remain in Count Dooku's services, so he would be in place when his true Master decided to take her vengeance.

It was time he proved himself worthy.

Despite his bulk, the Zabrak rose gracefully to his feet, clipping the lightsaber to the heavy sash of his armor.

Shadows playing over his black and gold face, Savage Opress left for the bridge.


	10. Hot Zone

**Chapter Ten: Hot Zone**

 _"Watch out for the frickin' laser beams."_

\- RC-1262 ("Scorch")

* * *

 _Aboard the_ Mockingbird

Wren was, above all, a man of instincts and the silence that permeated the ship made the skin at the back of his neck prickle. It was _wrong._ There was always something going on: music coming from one of the speakers; dishes and pots clanging in the galley; inane chatter from the flatscreen. _Something._ But as he stepped out of the 'fresher, skin still tingling from the shower and bacta, all he could make out was the nearly subsonic hum of the hyperspace drive.

Wren ran a hand over the short fuzz of his hair, then down his face, cursing softly to himself. The words had a nasty echoing feel in the otherwise silent, painted corridor.

The source of the silence was easy enough to deduce, since Ro was also generally the cause of most of the noise aboard the ship.

Fek it all, she wasn't _sulking,_ was she?

He'd never actually seen Ro sulk, but it was something females purportedly did, right?

 _No,_ he reminded himself, _she said she was meditating._ But even meditating Ro generally required some kind of background noise, leaving the flatscreen or the radio on while she perched atop whatever surface happened to catch her fancy. Wren had once caught her meditating while half-hanging upside down from the cockpit's hatch - for the view, or so she'd claimed.

Now, though….Wren glanced up and down the narrow corridor, straining his senses, but he didn't think she was either in the galley or the cargo bay.

Now that he'd calmed down sufficiently, he'd planned on grabbing some rack-time - no way was he going to get much sleep behind enemy lines - but instead he found himself in front of Ro's cabin.

"Kripes." He scowled at the painted door, an admirably accurate rendition of the Thornhedge Nebulae stretching over the durasteel. What the fek was he doing here? He had a mission to prep for; he should be getting sleep, food and his gear, in that order, not wasting time with the little nuisance to…..To what? He didn't even know.

Clear the air? _Apologize_?

The thought was so ridiculous he almost laughed out loud. Wren'd done far worse things than snap at a Jedi and he'd never apologized for a single one. He certainly wasn't about to start now, when it had been Ro's own fekking fault. She should've known better than to stick her kriffing nose in matters that didn't concern her one single eff….

Warmth suddenly flooded over him, roiling out from behind the door like a fog, tingling in his fingertips before sliding down his throat to pool in his belly.

As if he'd touched a live wire, Wren jumped backwards, hitting the opposite wall as he bared his teeth in an instinctive rejection of the _invasion._

It was the Force; Ro's fekking Force-touch and he almost screamed at the closed door for her to stay the kriff out of his head, but the sensation of warmth was gone as quickly as it had come, like a candle being blown out by a stray gust of wind.

" _Fek_." He clenched his trembling hands, which had fallen automatically to grasp blasters that weren't there. So she was meditating, after all. Wren ran a hand over his mouth, caught the slight shake of his fingers and abruptly slammed the hand against a bulkhead, to drive the shakes forcefully out of his body.

Screw this and screw her.

Wren turned sharply on his heels and marched back up the corridor, towards the cabin he'd claimed as his own. He'd decided to pack his gear before getting that shuteye; food could wait for last, he wasn't hungry anymore.

Whatever half-formed impulse had driven him to seek out Ro had fled, but as he rubbed his hands over the material of his bodyglove, he could not quite quelch the thought that they felt colder now - and that the warmth had been preferable.

* * *

 _Later…._

By the time Wren was up again, had eaten and triple-checked his gear, they only had an hour left before reaching Garqi. There was still no sign of Ro. He had, however, heard the water running in the refresher and the sounds of hearty singing, so he could at least be certain that she was done with her Force-meddlings and would make an appearance soon.

In the meantime, he might as well check and make sure the blasted droid wasn't flying them into a black hole. Wren knew, intellectually, that astromechs were more than adequate pilots, but his distrust of droids was too deep-rooted for him to ever fully feel comfortable with them at the yoke. That hadn't been much of an issue when he'd still been a regular ground-pounder and traveling aboard Star Destroyers, which were crewed by flesh and blood. But Ro often left her astromech, R3-T3, in charge of the ship and Wren couldn't go an hour without glancing at the helm and nav controls. The tinnie would shrill and whistle at him whenever he showed up in the cockpit alone, but Wren would be damned if he ever put his life in the grappling arms of a _crinking_ clanker.

True to form, R3 began beeping as soon as Wren's head cleared the cockpit's hatch. The trooper sneered and aimed a kick at the droid, and R3 scuttled back, almost unplugging itself in the process.

The droid shrieked a response, its domed head spinning wildly. Wren snorted; trust Ro to find the most barvy clanker in the galaxy to crew her ship. Ignoring the droid, Wren slid into the pilot's chair and began double-checking their course, before testing the rest of the ship's systems. The astromech gave several beeps that somehow managed to sound huffy and nervous all at once, before finally ignoring the trooper's presence, edging as far away from Wren as it could, given the cramped space between pilot and co-pilot's chair.

Wren lost himself in the work. He'd never actually piloted a starship before joining up with Ro. It wasn't a skill you needed as an infantry soldier, but like all ARCs, the necessary knowledge had been flashtrained into him and he'd logged his hours on the simulators. Piloting wasn't something he greatly enjoyed, nor did he excel at the skill, but he'd always loved the feel of a powerful machine under his control, the thrill of speed and, most importantly, the potential of escape. No matter the vehicle - starship, airspeeder or swoop bike - the promise of simply getting away, of leaving everything behind faster than any organic could follow had always appealed to him. Maybe because he'd always secretly hoped that his memories, his nightmares, would be left in the dust as well.

Wren shook his head. There he went again. Fierfek, he needed a battle. Not just a brawl, but a real, honest-to-kriffing battle that would get his blood up and keep him on that knife-edge of awareness where nothing mattered but the moment. He might get just that on Garqi. Zey would no doubt expect them to keep under the Seps' radar, but once you were on the ground, behind enemy lines, anything could happen. And once Krell got back and the fighting really began….

The scarred corner of his mouth twisted upwards. Yeah, Garqi might just be what he needed.

A clatter and cheerful singing announced the arrival of Ro in the galley and moments later, Wren heard her ascend the ladder to the cockpit.

"Cookie, you're in my seat."

Despite the jocular tone of her words, Wren turned the chair about with a sharp comeback already on his lips….and wound up staring in bemused fascination at the sight of the little Jedi.

"You like?" Ro gave him a dazzling smile before turning on the spot, her long hair flying in all directions. It was freshly washed, still crackling with static from the dryer and strands of it clung to her face and fingers. But what really drew the eye were the lines of color she'd dyed into her hair, a purple so intense it was pulsating. It started at the part in her hair, a thick river of purple that ran all the way down to her waist; smaller lines, like streamlets, broke from the main streak intermittently to create an overall marbling effect that was dizzying to behold. His eye kept trying to follow the flow of a single streak, only to be distracted and pulled in another direction and Wren had to close them, running a hand over his face to rid himself of the dazzle.

"Fan-kriffing-tastic, Ro. We can use your head as an effing signal light; make it fraggin' easy for the droids to pick us off."

Obviously, that wasn't the reaction she'd been hoping for. Pouting, she planted her hands atop the heavy, double-slung belt wound around her narrow hips. "Figures; I should've known better than to questionnaire a clone on matters of tastable fashion."

He couldn't help himself, she was just too fekking ridiculous. His lips curled into a smirk, while he cocked one eyebrow back at the little Jedi. "'Tastable fashion?' That an invitation to go through your underwear drawer, next time I want a snack?"

Always the epitome of poise and maturity, Ro promptly stuck her tongue out at him in response. "My underwear drawer and the wherewith things withall shall be and remain total dark matter to you, Cookie."

Oh, she was _asking_ for it now. Leaning forward in the chair, he let a shiver of suggestion enter his voice. "Good vaping thing for you then, _cheeka,_ that I prefer my fems _without_ underwear."

She gave a dramatic sigh before falling into the co-pilot's chair next to him, legs folded beneath. Ro never managed to simply _sit_ in a chair, but always looked like a bird settling into its nest.

"Whatever happened to white and shiny armor making charming, handsome knights?"

"One, my armor isn't white, which you should know because you kriffing painted it. With _out_ my permission."

She rolled her eyes ceiling-ward at the old complaint.

"Two, I haven't been a shiny for years," _Since I was three years old and they dragged my brother off to die,_ he added silently, "for which you should be effing grateful, _cheeka,_ because you'd be worm-food by now without me."

Ro fluttered her long, pale lashes at him in a simpering display of gratitude. "Uhhh, my big, strong, handsome savior. Quick, save me before I fall from my chair onto my damseling behind."

"And three," he frowned at her, hoping she'd at least take note of the import of his words, "you're in the wrong fekking holovid if you think wearing _white_ makes you a fraggin' saint."

Ro tilted her head at him in that way she had when she was thinking something over carefully, causing the purple streams in her hair to glisten like pumping blood. But after a moment, she gave a thoughtless shrug. "Jumping lanes back to my original point of argument, is how I'm supposed to be expecting fashion-sense from a masc race who wears _armor_ on the hour to _every_ occasion. You clone-boyos got like, what? _Two_ outfits to choose from?"

"Three: armor, bodyglove or vat suit." He made some minor adjustment to their course and was promptly overridden by the astromech. His frown deepened and he punched the altered code in again, threatening a kick at the droid as he did so. This time, the clanker didn't try to argue with him.

Ro ignored this little byplay, choosing instead to cast a critical eye at Wren. "And yet you're wearing _that_ to Garqi?"

Despite himself, Wren glanced down at the clothes he'd picked out. It still felt strange, actually choosing what to wear every day, when before, the only change in clothes he'd had were the three he'd mentioned to Ro, his blue-grey uniform and the occasional environmentally adjusted armor set. Though the latter had always been a loan from supplies. It was another one of those things - no doubt tiny and insignificant to civvies - that marked the stark change in his life.

"What the _gfersh_ is wrong with it?" he snapped, more irritated by her comment than he cared to admit. Going into a Sep stronghold without his kit was bad enough; the thin plates of body armor beneath his clothes left gaps he'd have to consider during a fight.

She pointed at the dark blue shirt, the brown canvas pants tucked into heavy black boots, the holsters strapped across his chest and low on his hips and the nerf leather jacket slung over the back of the pilot's chair as if they'd mortally offended her.

"You wore that the last time we infiltrated perimeters."

Wren let out a hiss of annoyance. "It's a fekking _war,_ Ro, not a fashion show. The clankers won't give a vape what I fardling wear."

"But I was hoping you'd don those new threads we got you on Dantooine." She propped her elbows on the chair's armrest, chin cradled in her open palms. Her eyebrows waggled suggestively. "You know I love you in leather."

He was still trying to come up with an adequate retort when the ship's chrono beeped the alarm - five minutes until they dropped out of hyperspace.

 _Thank the kriff._ He hated losing a verbal spar to Ro. "Strap in, _cheeka._ Almost time to meet the Seps."

"Do you think they'll have sweet-sand cookies?" she wondered as she pulled the crash harness over her narrow chest. "I hope they do. I _love_ sweet-sand cookies." A commotion drew her attention away from the viewport and Ro swiveled in her chair at the sound of six padded legs trying to climb the ladder into the cockpit just as Wren started the necessary power-down sequence for the drop back into realspace. He kept an eye on the chrono as well as a mental countdown.

 _10…..9….8_

"You _did_ remember to change the transponder codes, Artee?"

R3's affirmative - and slightly indignant - chirp was lost in the triumphant howl as Poorsa's head cleared the cockpit's hatch.

Ro laughed and clapped as the strill pushed itself through the hatch and bounded towards her.

 _3….2….1_

The sound of the engines changed abruptly, as the hyperdrive shut down and the sublight engines took over. The warped starfield twisted, lengthened and then sprang into almost painful focus as realspace established itself around them….

" _Fek!_ "

The flare was white-blue, hot and intense as a bursting star and big enough to engulf their entire ship. The proximity alarms went off with a wail and Wren had to shut his eyes against the glare even as he wrenched the ship to the side.

Ro, Artee and Poorsa shrieked in unison as the _Mockingbird_ pivoted onto its side; Ro and Artee were kept in place by the crash harness and magentized treads, but the strill went flying, its six legs waving frantically before it slammed into Ro hard enough to drive the breath from the little Jedi.

Wren was still fighting the controls. Alarms were breaking out all over the ship as the outer hull touched the edge of the flare and began to glow.

"Ro! The deflectors! Get the kriffing deflectors-"

She was already on it. One arm clenched around the squirming strill, Ro put the deflectors on full power. "We got a breach! Forward landing strut. Wren, it's melting the hull!"

No effing shit. Wren sent the ship into a spin in hopes of defusing the heat more evenly and then suddenly they were clear; the flare no longer piercing his eyes, but receding behind them.

"What the twisting nanana's was th-great _googly moogly_."

"You can say the kriff that again," he said.

Space, generally vast and coldly empty, was teeming with ships. The flare that had almost cooked them had been the fiery heart of a thruster engine, the tailend of a massive cruiser - the rear-guard for the rest of the pack.

As _Mockingbird_ dove to escape towards the edge of the armada, Wren saw sleek frigates nosing towards the planet in a ring formation. Behind the frigates were the cruisers, each a needle-nosed durasteel fortress bristling with turbo lasers. Surrounding the armada, like a swarm of blood flies buzzing around the heads of hunting anooba, were droid starfighters - hundreds of them.

It was a fleet; a whole karking, effing Separatist _fleet._ And it was heading straight for Garqi.

"That," Ro said, "ain't stellar."

"No shit."

She was leaning so far over the console that Poorsa was in real danger of being squished. "What are they doing here, Cookie?" Jedi and strill turned to him with equal looks of bewilderment. "Intel said-"

The collision alarms cut across whatever Ro'd been about say. Three vulture droids had dropped out of the main swarm, two taking up flanking positions on either side of their ship. The third, though Wren couldn't see it, had to be practically sitting atop them. They were boxed in.

The comm beeped and a Neimoidian's nasal voice said, "Unregistered starship, this is the Confederate Destroyer _Invisible Hand_. Respond immediately."

All the fine hairs along Wren's neck and arms rose and when he took a second look at the gathering fleet, he saw the ship immediately. Larger than the others, the _Invisible Hand_ brooded over the rest of the armada like a Felucian ripper waiting to swoop down on an unsuspecting prey, the yellow bow stripes along its hull as subtle as scarred-over claw marks.

"The _Invisible Hand_ ," he repeated, tasting the name like it was an exotic drink that might scald his tongue to cinders. "General-fekking-Grievous' flagship."

A smile, razor-thin and devoid of all humor, etched itself upon his face.

They were in deep.

 _Finally._

* * *

Ro had one eye on the instruments, but she turned sharply at Wren's words. She didn't like what she found there, not one wee tinsy bit.

His face half-cast in shadow by the uncertain starlight, the angles of his profile stood out sharp enough to cut, the smile on his face more a grimace of distaste and….and….Ro groped for the right word.

Wren's Force-aura was just as ambivalent, the lightning shield of his anger thinned out enough for her to detect a confused welter of feelings that were no less powerful for their ambivalence. She thought….it wasn't _awe,_ not exactly, nor even _glee_ , but something related to those two emotions. A kissing cousin was the best description that came to her mind, but she didn't quite dare get a good look at it. The smile, the confusing swirl of his emotions...Ro had a feeling that if she dared touch either Wren or his Force-signature at that moment, something - something big and ugly and scarred - would leap out at her and bite.

 _Like a vibroblade,_ she suddenly realized. _That's what it -_ he _\- feels like. A vibroblade_ _pressed against my throat. Or an akk dog with his fangs poised for the killing strike._

"Unregistered starship." The Neimoidian's voice broke through the tense silence, making everyone in the cockpit jump a little. Ro'd almost forgotten about their impromptu escort. "This is the Confederate Destroy-"

Ro hastily took control of the comms before Wren had a chance to, not trusting the trooper's state of mind in that instant to deal with the situation.

" _Invisible Hand,_ " she quickly cleared her throat, hoping to rid her voice of the squeak it had acquired. "This is Roweena Ikuzu," she said, naming one of her long-standing aliases, "of the starship _Mockingbird_. H-how are you doing today?"

She slapped a hand to her forehead for the lame question. Wren just looked at her like she'd grown a second head.

Thankfully, this Neimoidian was just bureaucratically stuffy enough as to be immune to her inanities. " _Mockingbird,_ you've entered an interdicted system."

The two vultures flanking them moved a bit closer to their ship; one of them turned its triangular head, the red-glowing photoreceptors staring straight through their viewport.

"Prepare to be escorted aboard our flagship for detainment, questioning and a search of your current cargo."

 _Yeah, no._ She could already tell how that scenario was going to work out and it looked a lot like the punchline to a bad joke. _A Jedi and a clone trooper land on Grievous' ship…_

Wedged in between the pilot's and co-pilot's chair, Artee was giving off a drawn-out series of stuttering little beeps - the astromech's version of hyperventilating.

" _Invisible Hand,_ " Ro tried to keep calm, cheerful, but her eyes were flickering over the starfield, already looking for a way out, "that's truly not necessary. All this fuss for little old us?"

Next to her, Wren attempted a minute maneuver to gain them some more space between the ship and the vultures, but the droid starfighters matched the movements perfectly.

"Check your transponder readouts," Ro added. "We're licensed under the Artisans Guild, from the Neutral ports-"

"Starship _Mockingbird,_ " the Neimoidian cut across her, sounding just a tad peeved now, "prepare to be escorted aboard our flagship. You _will_ comply, or else be destroyed."

"Destroy-" The ship shuddered violently as the vulture that had been shadowing them from above abruptly dropped to slam into them, cutting Ro's protests off.

Her teeth rattled from the impact and in her lap, Poorsa began to quiver.

 _"Invisible Hand_ , this is an outrage! We are a _legally licenced_ trade vessel and under the _protection_ of the Council of Neutral Systems and we _demand_ the right to _proper and free_ enterprise."

It was a barely veiled threat that would have made most Neimoidians reconsider - the Trade Federation had a large market in the Neutral Systems - but either this Neimie was more conscientious than most of his fellows, or the decision had been taken out of his hands. Either way, the comm suddenly crackled with static as the Neimoidian cut the connection.

Ro and Wren shared a look. "That's not good for us, is it?"

* * *

Wren didn't wait around for the _poodoo_ to hit the exhaust fan. Soon as he heard the static, Wren thrust the steering yoke forward, sending the _Mockingbird_ into a headlong nosedive, careening under the three flanking droids.

The vultures were on their tail in seconds.

The ship shuddered as streams of red plasma bounced off of the deflector shields, alarms shrieking bloody murder with Poorsa giving a descant to the noise.

Wren tried to shut it out, to focus on their flight, but he'd always been more of a fighter than a pilot - his hands itched for the cannon controls, not the steering yoke. But instead of taking the controls herself, Ro directed Artee to take over the ship's armaments.

Wren grit his teeth against her folly and jerked the ship into a spiral, trying to lose the vultures.

"Wren," Ro pointed frantically out of the viewport. "There."

He almost snapped at her for the damned vague instruction - where in kriffing hell was ' _there_ ' in space? - but just at that moment one of the frigates slid into place around Garqi, clearing the airfield and Wren saw what she meant.

It was a huge debris field, easily the size of the entire fleet, no more than a few hundred-thousand klicks from the planet itself. The Sep fleet had plowed through the field on their way to set up the blockade, the frigates blasting whatever crossed their path; the larger cruisers bouncing the debris off their shields. The result was that the pieces of slagged durasteel, hull and bulkheads and starfighters torn apart by missiles and plasma, had been sent spinning off into space, spreading the debris out and making it as treacherous as any asteroid belt. And a perfect place to hide.

Wren didn't waste any more time and angled the ship towards the debris field.

Artee was still screeching, but Wren could see the targeting screens from the corner of his eye as _Mockingbird's_ twin repeating laser-cannons took aim and fired.

One of the vultures disappeared into a blazing ball of fire.

" _Yes_!" Ro pumped a fist, while Poorsa bounced on her lap.

The two remaining vultures dove apart to avoid their downed comrade, swerved wide and came at them from the front, firing as they went.

Artee shrieked at their approach, a shower of sparks flying from his domed head as the droid backed away from the oncoming vultures with enough force to unplug himself from his station.

"Kriff it," Wren muttered.

Ro dove for the weapons array, but Wren was already wrenching them around, trying to avoid a collision, and so sent her sailing back into her seat.

The astromech gave off a piercing whistle as it, too, was sent flying into the opposite wall. The impact was enough to rattle the entire cockpit and Artee smashed down onto the deck plates, sparks still flying, ocular implant dark and unresponsive. Their astromech was down for the count.

Laserfire smacked into their port side and alarms went off all across the console as part of the shield momentarily disintegrated and a patch of hull buckled.

"We're leaking atmo!"

"Ro, get the kriffing weapons online," Wren barked.

The vultures were preparing another attack run. Clearly they'd realized _Mockingbird_ was heading for the debris field; the vultures peeled off in opposite directions to come at the ship from its blind spots, trying to cut off its route of escape.

Poorsa still squirmed under Ro's arm, while the Jedi was biting her lip as she tried to square one of the vultures in the targeting array's reticule.

Wren had a moment to think, _That should be me,_ before the droids were on them once more. The ship shuddered and bucked and the power-readout for the shields dropped steadily.

Ro fired. She didn't go for precision, as Wren would have, but instead swept the cannons' fire in a wide arc ahead of them, hoping to catch the vultures in the spray. The droids dove apart, but one was a second too slow.

The green plasma fire bit into the wing, shearing the appendage off - along with a good portion of the droid's stabilizers. The vulture lost control. Smoke and sparks shot out from its side as it careened into its partner, too fast for the second droid to properly react. The two collided in a burst of flame….no more than a few hundred meters ahead of _Mockingbird._

There was no time to avoid the collision. Though Wren tried to jerk the ship over, at speeds like theirs, he might as well have tried to redirect a blizzard through sheer force of will. Smoke and debris obscured the view as their ship went straight through the collision site. The alarms were now going wild, and the ship rocked as pieces of droid hit them in an unavoidable shrapnel rain.

The head of one of the vultures came at them, bounced off the viewport and sailed away. There was a sharp, tinkling _crack,_ and a finger-long, spidery crack appeared in the transparisteel viewport.

* * *

They'd almost made it to the debris field when the ship's scanner lit up like a midwinter tree.

"Shi-"

The first torpedo hit a sliced off piece of hull just below _Mockingbird's_ aft.

Everything was turned upside down as the explosion ripped clean through their aft shields, thrusters and stabilizers, sending the ship to tumble end over end straight into the field.

Ro and Wren were slammed forward in their seats and only Ro's firm grip on the strill kept the pup from slamming into the already damaged viewport. Wren's breath was knocked out of him as his chest collided with the steering yoke with bruising force. He would have likely lost his head as Artee, still knocked off-line, came flying at him, if Ro hadn't grabbed his shirt-collar and pulled him down.

Pain exploded in his nose as his face hit the top of the steering yoke, but Wren barely noticed as the malfunctioning droid slammed into the control console before them. Durasteel buckled and sparks went flying everywhere as the panels were smashed under the astromech's considerable weight.

"No," Ro howled, as if she'd been mortally wounded, and tried to reach out, whether towards the sparking controls or her droid, Wren had no kriffing clue and it didn't matter. They were still spinning ass over viewport and no sooner had the droid crash landed on their console then the ship flipped again. Ceiling and floor traded places and the droid went smashing onto the deck plates, almost knocking Ro flat.

Wren's nose and mouth were filling with blood when their spin came to an abrupt halt.

The hull groaned and screamed as one of the ship's curved wings collided with a hefty hunk of debris. The laser cannon was torn off as the wing half-sheared into what looked to be two-thirds of a larty. Tangled together like lovers, the two ships were driven back, deeper and deeper into the debris field.

 _More; the scanner picked up more of those kriffing things._ Wren thought he heard more alarms off in the distance, but couldn't be sure - his ears were ringing, the blood pounding in his head.

"C'mon, c'mon." That was Ro. Past a frantically twisting and yipping Poorsa, the little Jedi was desperately trying to get _something_ to function on the half-destroyed control console, talking up a storm. "C'mon m'darling bird, don't do this now on accounting it's mono _bombad_ timing and we're not….. _Brace_!"

The larty took the worst of the hit. The wrecked LAAT splintered under the force of the torpedo, but _Mockingbird's_ triple-enforced hull withstood the worst of the explosion.

Shaking the blood from his face, Wren made a grab for the steering yoke, trying to punch more power into the sublight engines. Enforced hull or not, he didn't need the ship's emergency systems to tell him they couldn't withstand another blast like that. And there were more on the way.

The scanner's screen was badly cracked, but the display was still functioning and there were two brightly burning spots on it, coming at them full speed.

"Forget the deflectors; Ro, reroute power to the engines. Ro!"

But Ro wasn't listening. Her head had shot up as if slapped; she was staring at the ceiling, eyes wide as saucers. In the cockpit's flickering lights, her pupils expanded until they swallowed the teal of her eyes, then narrowed to pinpricks.

"Ro, get your kriffing act toge-"

Her hand shot out to grip his wrist, her long, slender fingers digging into the skin until her nails bit into his flesh.

"Ro, what the fek?"

"Trust me." Her voice was strangely calm, cutting through the rising alarms and rattles, as the ship impacted again and again with battle debris. Wren could feel those two missiles closing in, breathing down his neck, but Ro never stopped looking at him and he could not seem to tear his gaze away from hers. There was a wild look to her; laughter danced in her eyes with fear, but she wouldn't relinquish her hold on him or Poorsa.

His fingers began to tingle.

Wren tried to yank his hand away even as the warmth poured into his limbs, down his throat, choking him. He struggled, fought, but Ro's fingers were durasteel clamps.

"Trust me," she said again, more urgently this time as she plunged her free hand into the damaged console, ignoring the sparks that burned her skin. "I can do this." She yanked, hard, and something inside the console gave away with a snap.

Wren had time to recognize the surge protector in Ro's hand before the sirens gave a single, agonized keen.

The electricity blew out of the console in long, blue arcs. The air tasted of burned ozone; every hair on his body stood on end. His muscles burned, spasmed; his blood was on fire, but the warmth was there, smothering the flames, wrapping itself around him like a blanket - weighing him down.

Wren's vision went white, blue, then grey as every electronic system aboard the ship overloaded. Great arcs of electricity raced through the cockpit and then they were on fire, their shields were burning...burning….blowing outwards into the coldness of space, but he was being dragged down, ever downwards and away by the warmth that numbed and soothed and suffocated.

Then…..

Fire in the sky and then nothing but darkness.


	11. Hide and Miss

**Author's Note:** A huge shoutout to all my wonderful reviewers, especially those of you who leave a guest review. Special mono thanks to Panda, who's stuck with this series - and the many quirks of its writer - for quite some time now. I just wish I could respond to your wonderful comments, 'cause they make my day every time.

Cheers to you all!

* * *

 **Chapter Eleven: Hide and Miss**

 _"Rule 17: Always make sure they're dead."_

 _-_ RC-1207 ("Sev")

* * *

 _Aboard the_ Invisible Hand

The bridge was in a minor uproar when Savage Opress entered.

Droids didn't do ' _stressed_ ,' but the B1s manning their stations certainly gave an impression of great industry, their fingers clacking over keyboards too quickly to be called anything but haste.

The Neimoidians were huddled around one of their comm stations, casting the occasional furtive glance at General Grievous. They were mostly fearful, those glances, but Savage could also detect the barest hint of something else. Contempt? Or even doubt?

"Premature detonation on the first two missiles, General," a droid reported.

Missiles? Savage moved out of the dark corner from which he'd observed the bridge, and closer towards the viewport. Grievous stood before the transparisteel, a hulking porter radiating disapproval and disgust for all those who crossed his path. But Savage was Count Dooku's apprentice, Asajj Ventress' Chosen and a Sith Lord in the making. Let the others cower before the cyborg's dark mood.

The Zabrak moved closer still, until he stood just a step behind Grievous and to his side, enough so that he could see the scene unfolding outside the _Invisible Hand._

"Launch two more," the general snarled. He didn't seem aware of Savage's presence, remaining focused on something amidst the field of stars.

"Roger, roger."

"General," one of the Neimodian's ventured - Savage could never tell which, they were all alike in their cringing, credit-pinching demeanor, "would it not be wise to-"

Grievous' head snapped around to stare at the Neimoidian. At the touch of those burning yellow eyes, the Neimoidian almost disappeared into his robes.

Beneath his boots, Savage felt the barest tremor as two more missiles were launched. He watched their engine trail, estimated their general line of flight and finally identified the cause of the bridge's tension.

It was a ship; badly battered, he could still make out the elegant curve of the wings, the graceful long neck and blotches of bright color along the hull. It tumbled heedlessly through the debris left over from the earlier battle, but he could see its engines were still burning, the crew trying to maneuver the damaged vessel to safety. Not a starfighter, though. Though oddly configured, it didn't seem more than an ordinary passenger ship or maybe a freighter. And Grievous needed four missiles to take it down?

He reached out his senses, trying to detect with the Force if perhaps there was something special about the crew, something Grievous knew that he did not. His mind stretched, sending out mental fingers to grope through the darkness...And he thought he found a candle, small and insignificant, but burning brightly nonetheless before it was suddenly snatched away.

Savage's eyes flew open. That candle had felt familiar, but it was so small.

"Something you want to say, assassin?" Perhaps he'd sensed some of Savage's earlier misgivings, or seen the flicker of a frown across the Zabrak's black-gold face, but Savage found himself now on the receiving end of Grievous' yellow-eyed stare.

A corner of Savage's mouth twisted. "No."

"Good."

He should have held that stare, to prove to the cyborg that he was not cowed, but….

The dark side _hissed_ , coiling into itself like a sand viper warning off a foe as _laughter,_ clear as silver, rang in his ears.

Savage's head whipped around to stare out the viewport just as an explosion tore through space. Blazing white and electric blue, it momentarily blinded the Zabrak, whose eyes were accustomed to the dim red glow of Dathomir's primary. Savage flinched and when he next opened his eyes, the debris field was utter chaos, with chunks of slagged durasteel and torn-apart starfighters spinning heedlessly, colliding and bouncing off one another to form new patterns of drift within the field. The starship had vanished into the chaos.

Savage stepped closer to the viewport, until he was almost shoulder-to-shoulder with Grievous.

Far away and unnecessary, a droid said: "The ship has been destroyed, General."

Savage barely paid the machine any mind. That _laugh._ He'd not heard it with his ears, but within that quiet, dark place the Nightsisters' magick had awakened within him and in that brief second, the candle had blazed. He _knew_ that touch - that _light_!

"Excellent." Grievous let loose a volley of hacking coughs, but waved one skeletal hand at the helm. "Proceed on cour-"

"No."

The cyborg turned sharply, white cape snapping, to stare at Savage first in surprise, then narrow-eyed fury. "I am not in the habit of having my orders questioned aboard my own ship."

Savage glared back. "There was a Jedi aboard that ship."

Even the droids manning the bridge went silent; only the two Neimoidians in their corner continued to speak in low, hurried tones.

Grievous' eyes shifted restlessly between the fleet circling Garqi, the wildly spinning debris field, and Savage. It was difficult reading the cyborg; his twisted body was fluid in destruction, but possessed of little body language and his faceplate expressed little else but a deep-seated, malignant animosity. But there was no denying the predatory lean of his legs and shoulders at the word " _Jedi._ " Nor, the cautious stillness that overtook him.

"And how have you come about this bit of Intel, assassin?" There was scorn in the cyborg's voice, but curiosity as well. And hunger. If anything remained of the man Grievous had once been, before he'd become the machine, it was an unquenchable thirst for revenge on the Jedi.

Savage sneered back into the face of Grievous' doubt. "I have sensed their kind before, on Devaron. Where I killed two," he added, after a pointed pause.

"Two, eh?" For the first time, Grievous looked at Savage with something akin to respect. Then the cyborg laughed and swept back his ragged cloak, revealing two lightsabers clipped to his thin waist - and six more attached to the inside of his cloak. "Not bad, assassin. Though you'll have to spill a bit more Jedi blood to match _me_."

Savage's blood began to boil and he confronted the cyborg head on. "Only a fool turns his back on prey without convincing himself of its demise with his own eyes. Unless he is courting death." Suggestively, he dropped his hand to his own lightsaber.

Grievous' eyes narrowed, but his voice was almost cordial when he spoke. "True. Very well." He turned to snap an order at the nearest droid. "What do our sensors say?"

One of the droids manning the sensor stations half-turned in its chair. "General, the debris field contains too many trace amounts of ion radiation for our sensors to penetrate. We cannot get a clear reading."

"And your precious Force?" Hunched over as he was, Grievous had to cock his head slightly to look at Savage. "What does it tell you?"

"I…" Savage hesitated, his eyes cutting down and to the side as he searched the Force. The feeling had been so _clear_ just moments ago, a clarion call of pitiful light, ready to be ground out of existence beneath his bootheel. He grasped for it now, that moment of instant antipathy towards an as-yet totally unknown entity….and found only shifting shadows, cast by a million distant points of light.

He ground out the words between clenched teeth. "I cannot tell if the Jedi lives."

"You can't tell." There was no denying the mockery in Grievous' tone, nor the contempt. "Is that so? How very unfortunate."

And though it shouldn't have, the cyborg's scorn cut deep. Savage's shoulders hunched, his muscles tightened in expectation of a blow - the cruel blast of his Master's Force-lighting, or the sharp-nailed daintiness of his Mistress' hand.

But Grievous turned his back on Savage.

"I _did_ feel the Jedi," Savage rasped.

Grievous spared him a look over one bony shoulder. "I'm sure you did. And don't worry, we will be thorough. Send out a pod hunter," he directed the droids.

One of the Neimoidians - finding a speck of courage - stepped away from the comm station, long brown robes sweeping about his ankles.

"General Grievous, we are wasting time. The torpedoes hit their mark, we all saw the flash. The longer we leave the fleet dallying in place, the more resources we consume. You should be ordering the placement of the blockade, not hunting for g-"

The Neimoidian's words ended in a gurgle as Grievous' skeletal hand shot out and relentless fingers closed around the fleshy throat. The cyborg dragged the struggling comm technician closer, until they were face-to-face, all the while unfurling his bowed body to its full height. The Neimoidian's struggles grew ever more frantic as his feet lost contact with the ground. Casually, Grievous pressed his thumb into the hollow of the Neimoidian's throat, just below the chin. The Neimoidian's red eyes bulged from their sockets, his mouth working soundlessly; truly desperate now, his fingers scrabbled at the implacable grip on his throat, while one hand clutched at Grievous' wrist in a useless attempt to take the pressure from his windpipe.

The bridge was utterly silent except for a dull clatter as the Neimoidian's struggles knocked the tall cap from his head.

Grievous studied the Neimoidian's face darken to an emerald hue, as if the technician were a curious insect, and the cyborg was contemplating what would be more inconvenient: letting him live….or cleaning up the mess after he'd squashed him.

Finally, Grievous rasped, "I am in command of this fleet; _I_ give the orders and _I_ decide what is and is not of importance. You would do well to remember that." And for just the briefest of moments, Grievous' yellow eyes met Savage's own.

The Neimoidian managed a breathless gasp and jerked his head in what might have been a nod - or the last spasm of a dying body. Either way, it seemed to appease Grievous. With a flick of his wrist, Grievous flung the Neimoidian back towards his comm station. The officer hit the console with a meaty _thunk_ , wheezing with pain. His comrade merely cowered deeper behind the comm console.

"Get back to your post," Grievous snarled, "before I decide _you_ are a waste of resources and have you replaced with a droid."

Gasping in huge lungfuls of air, clutching at his throat with one hand and the console with the other, the Neimoidian managed to get back onto shaky legs. He _did_ dare to glance at his hat where it had fallen, but whatever passed for courage in his species had obviously deserted the technician, for he turned his back on the thing quickly enough, scrambling to get to his station.

Savage watched from his place by the viewport, feeling more like a spectator at an unevenly matched pit fight. He _trembled_ where he stood; the short burst of violence had saturated the air and the dark side drank it up as a man dying of thirst might guzzle down a glass of water. It was…. _exhilarating_. This power that flowed through him…..He'd not felt this way since Devaron, when clones and Jedi had fallen beneath his might like blades of grass. Had he wanted to, he could cut down every last member of the bridge crew - even _Grievous_!

Was that then the key to the dark side's power? Did the act of violence itself beget the Force?

"Launch that hunter." Grievous' electronic rasp was a slap in the face, jarring Savage out of his reverie. "Make sure there are _no_ survivors."

The droids sang out a chorus of, "Roger, roger." Were they capable of no other response?

As if he'd done nothing more than swat an obnoxious gnatfly, the cyborg general made his way back to the viewport. His eyes swept over the comm station once; the Neimoidians shrank back, averting their gaze and pretending at great industry.

Standing once more before the great expanse of transparisteel, Grievous folded his hands behind his back. No more than a meter separated cyborg and Zabrak, yet Grievous studiously avoided looking at Savage as he said: "For your sake, assassin, this had better not be a waste of my time."

Savage did not bother to answer. Count Dooku had sent him to Garqi with a clear objective and that had not included shedding the Separatists' most fearsome general's blood - or whatever passed for blood in that monstrosity Grievous called a body. Savage was not at all certain whether the cyborg retained enough of his organic origins to still bleed anything but hydraulic fluid.

He watched the launching of the pod hunter from the periphery, still half-immersed in the Force. Garqi's primary briefly reflected off of its durasteel skin, turning the "juicer" into a tiny comet.

The silence on the bridge was absolute.

Grievous _appeared_ to be fixated on the growing spectacle of Garqi, the purple planet devouring more and more space in the viewport as the _Invisible Hand_ closed in on its target position, but Savage could not be _certain._ Grievous was as opaque in the Force as the heavy green mists that shrouded Dathomir - and Savage's own mind. His thoughts could be turned inward or straying a thousand lightyears away and his droid's body would never reveal those little telltales Savage had been trained to spot in the course of his Nightbrother's training.

Savage spent the silence searching; scouring the blackness of space in an attempt to recapture that elusive feeling of candleflame that had touched his mind just before the starship's destruction.

But no matter how hard he bent his mind to the exercise, he could not _precisely_ recall the sensations that had been running through his body at the time. In truth, he hadn't been concentrating on the present at all, his mind half-occupied with Grievous, the other half reviewing his next steps prior to beginning his search for Karka Tr'ansom and the Waste. A warrior needed to be aware of his surroundings at all times and he hadn't been, at least, not by the means he had now.

It was all still so new to him, this _sensing_. Dathomir's dangerous environs had strengthened the Zabrak's already heightened senses, and under the harsh tutelage of the Nightbrothers, he'd learned to employ every advantage his body could give him. It was why he'd withstood the Choosing and been found worthy by his Mistress.

But now, his Master required him to see without using his eyes, to feel without his skin, hear without his ears, and he was floundering through unfamiliar waters the likes of which he'd not felt since he'd turned four and started his warrior's training. And it left him…. _angry,_ as so much did these days.

Had he always been filled with such rage?

Savage could not remember; the swirling mass of green mist obscured those memories too completely. Which meant it didn't matter.

But the tight fist of his right hand at his side would not unclench, the nails digging deeply into his palm.

 _Why_ had the Jedi been _laughing_?

There'd been laughter in his life, once. Laughter shared with his Nightbrothers and especially with Feral...His mind veered sharply away from the memory of his brother. Feral had been weak; he was not worthy of remembrance.

But for the life of him, Savage could not remember ever hearing laughter in the face of certain death. And that laugh, it had been, not despairing, but _triumphant._

Inside his mind, the mists of the dark side slithered with the restless energy of a viper coiling in on itself, hungry but without prey. And still, Savage continued to search, grasping for the elusive laughing light with all the cunning of a seeing man stumbling through a dark room.

"General Grievous, sir," a droid's tinny voice cut through the silence like a vibroblade. "The pod hunter has located the ship."

Electricity raced up his spine. Savage's eyes snapped open - When had he closed them? - and his head turned sharply towards the B1. The scalp between his vestigial horns tingled.

 _Now. Now._

Perhaps he was still too weak to find the light and squash it by himself, but if he could be pointed in the right direction, he knew he could….

"Has the hunter found any survivors?" Grievous demanded. Unlike Savage, the cyborg had retained his post by the viewport, keeping his eyes fixed on the stars above. Garqi was so close now, it took up more than half of the viewport and its purple iridescence cast tiny waves of shimmering color to race over Grievous' battle-marred droid body.

The B1 only briefly looked up from its station, cocking its head in a curious imitation of a bird studying a feline, gauging the predator's ability to cross the distance in a single pounce and snap its spindly neck.

"Negative, General. The hunter reports the ship has been badly damaged; no lifesigns aboard."

"I see."

Grievous did move then, his skull-like head twisting towards Savage. As if strings had been attached to the tips of his horns, to be pulled by invisible fingers, Savage's own head jerked to the left, to Grievous.

Their eyes met, yellow on yellow.

If Savage had thought the cyborg general's contempt was hard to swallow, what he saw reflected in Grievous' eyes now stuck in his throat hard enough to choke: scorn and dismissal. Without realizing it, Savage had been put to the test...and had failed. He could feel himself slipping further down the ranks in this durasteel army's hierarchy as the barely visible blackened flesh in the dark eye holes of Grievous' faceplate crinkled, as if the cyborg were pulling lips that had long since been burned off into a sneer beneath his skull-mask.

"It would seem your _senses_ leave much to be desired, assassin." Grievous hacked out a volley of coughs, his bent back bowing further under their force, but his eyes never left Savage's. "A pity, really. Perhaps with time, you will be able to remedy your shortcomings. Though I doubt it."

Savage's lips peeled back in a snarl, the growl erupting from his throat unbidden. Too much; he'd taken these insults for too long, from too many, he would not stand for one more.

His hand settled on the hilt of his double-bladed lightsaber.

"Ah-ah." Grievous, seeing the gesture, merely raised one thin durasteel finger and waggled it at Savage, like a parent reprimanding an obdurate child. "The blockade is almost in place. It is time for you to see to the task you've been set, assassin, and hope you are more competent in tracking down one lost spy than you are in detecting Jedi. Count Dooku does not suffer failure lightly." More hacks, this time sounding like abridged laughter. "Just ask your predecessor."

It was not the mention of Count Dooku that made him back down, but the casual taunt about Asajj Ventress - his true Mistress. Her mention, even one delivered so casually, was a dose of cold water to his face and Savage found himself taking an unconscious step backwards, even as his hands fisted at his side.

He could not fail; not his Master and especially not his Mistress and right now, one fed into the other. Grievous was nothing but a distraction he could not afford. So he bowed his head in submission and to hide his rage, though doing so scalded his skin like an acid wash from scalp to toes.

"I will be in the hangar, preparing my ship," he ground out and hastily took to his heels before the cyborg could say anything more, such as: " _Dismissed._ " As if he were just another one of his battle droids.

He strode across the dark bridge, ignored by the droids, but watched nonetheless. But when he cut his gaze towards the comm station, the two Neimoidians hastily averted their eyes, part in fear and part in cowardly satisfaction for being privy to his humiliation.

Savage sneered at the Neimoidians - whom he could have crushed with a flex of his strong fingers - and turned his back on the whole bridge, in an act of disdain that felt both satisfying and utterly mediocre.

The rage burned deep in his belly, the flames of anger shooting up his throat and begging to be released in a bellow of rage so great it would shake the transparisteel viewport to pieces. But he swallowed it down, like his shame, his frustration, and let it smolder.

The dark side was always hungry.

Just before the bridge doors closed behind him, Savage turned his head just enough for the fallow orange light of a console to fall on his profile and make the single burning eye flash in the darkness.

 _Through passion, I gain strength._

 _Through strength, I gain power._

 _Through power, I gain victory._

 _Through victory, my chains are broken._

Beware the dark side.


	12. Thinks

**Chapter Twelve: Thinks**

 _"Think of yourself as a hand. Each of you is a finger, and without the others you're useless. Alone, a finger can't grasp, or control, or form a fist. You are nothing on your own, and everything together."_

-Kal Skirata, Mandalorian _Cuy'val Dar_ , to a class of clone commandos

* * *

 _Onboard the_ Mockingbird

Survival could feel a whole lot like dead if you really worked on it.

Ro broke through the trance as if she were swimming to the surface of some dark water, beckoned by the light glimmering far overhead.

It was a slow awakening and none too gentle. As the first hot lances of pain registered within a mind still trance-groggy, Ro seriously considered just letting herself fall back into the welcoming warmth of unconsciousness. But it was _dark_ down there, no matter how safe, and a nagging feeling of urgency would not let her rest.

So she swam, up and up until finally she breached the dark waters and….

Ro gasped, sitting bolt-upright in her chair, then almost immediately collapsed back with a groan.

"Ow." Her muscles were stiff as boards; she felt like one giant cramp.

A hiss of breath drew her attention to her left. Her neck was as stiff as the rest of her and when she managed to look towards the pilot's station, she saw just how deep the shadows in the cockpit had grown. The lights had blown out, along with all the rest. Panic, cold and clammy, threatened to swamp Ro, before she realized that the stars and Garqi's primary shed enough ambient light for her to make out grey outlines. From that gloom, she was met by a pair of murderous brown eyes.

"Serves you right." Wren's voice was little more than a hoarse bark; his jaw moved as if it had been wired shut. "Fekking bitch."

Ro groaned again and let her head roll back against the headrest. "So sorry to have saved your shapely _choobies_ , Cookie. I pinky swear, next time, the droids can blow you to diddly." There was something wrong with her vision. Ro blinked several times, before realizing she was gazing through a veil of her hair. Tilting her head back a little further, she caught sight of more strands, floating serenely in the air, brushing against her face and the chair. She felt very light, floaty, even strapped into her seat.

 _The gravity generator fried with everything else. I've got gravity defying hair._

The thought might have made her giggle, if her chest hadn't hurt so much.

Wren glared at her, narrow-eyed. He was half-slumped in his chair, with only the crash harness to keep him from falling over. "That supposed to be sarcasm, _cheeka_?"

"I don't think it counts if you have to ask. Wait."

He'd tried to sit upright, but a spasm raced through his body and Wren fell back into the harness, teeth grit against a gasp of pain.

Her macho-masc clone. Thank the gooey crumblebuns she was a fem and free to whimper her ouches to her heart's content.

"Let me help," Ro said. She still gripped his wrist and her fingers were so stiff, she was likely going to have to pry them off, one by one.

"Vape it," he snarled. "I've had enough of your karking _help_."

She flinched back as a touch of lightning surged from his Force-aura to scorch her, but Wren's anger only served to spark her own.

"My blankety help kept you from _murdering_ someone, not to mention keeping _us_ from being turned to space dust."

"Right," he sneered and jerked his head at the destroyed console and cracked viewport. The movement must have been excruciating, if he was feeling half as bad as she was, but those were the kind of lengths Wren was willing to go to, to kick a person in the teeth. "Because we're so fraggin' better off right now."

"Breathing canned air through bruised lungs is mono prime loads better than breathing vacuum through fleshy pink ones. I'm _not_ ," she seethed, "looking for knee-bending worship of the ground I skip upon, Cookie, but would a wee bit of gratitude break your teeth off coming out?"

"Getting _electrocuted_ isn't exactly on my list of things I should be effing grateful for!"

"I was _helping_!"

"And how many fekking times do I have to tell you? I. Don't. Kriffing. _Need_. Your. _Help_!"

The cockpit filled with the sound of their heavy breathing.

It killed her to do it - she had her pride, too - but Ro broke their staring contest by closing her eyes. They were arguing in circles and if something didn't knock them out of this verbal geosync orbit soon, they'd likely still be sitting here with their exhaust ports hanging out when Krell showed up. Ro might be annoyed with Zey for deliberately keeping her on the sidelines of this war, but she didn't want to get that up close and personal either. Which meant she had to get a hold of her temper and be the Jedi here.

 _Sweet Trana nougat creme, give me strength._

She concentrated on the beating of her heart, counting her breaths and seeking _calm_. She didn't open her eyes again until she felt Wren's anger change to bright sparks of _annoyance_.

Tilting her head to look at him - and ignoring the pain in her neck - Ro said conversationally, "It's a sad, sad day in the Rim when _I'm_ the mature one. Cool your thrusters, Cookie and let me give you the skinny. I _had to_ electrofry us to det the torpedos, hopefully _before_ they were close enough to kiss our hull, give the impression the ship was blow-wrecked and deepen the trance, _which_ ," she hastily added before he could open his mouth to spew further complaints, "was needcessary on account there was a _Force-user_ sharing wings with Grievous and just abouts a sniff away from catching my scent."

She took a deep breath to fill her lungs, then added in a last linger of pique, "And the jumping juice wouldn't have burned you so crispy if you hadn't fought the trance like a Wookiee madclaw."

He'd looked semi-thoughtful during her explanation, but now his eyes snapped back to hers. "You were to stay the fek out of my head. _Always_."

"For the _last time_ ," she exploded, fed up with his accusations and suspicions. "Even if I wanted to and I don't, because _ew_ , I can't Force into your buckethead. I'm an _empath_. I don't touch your mind, I touch your…." What? His psyche? His _heart_? She didn't think either of those would rub him any less raw. Lamely, she finished, "...your emotions. The trance is a physical manifestation of peace, calm, serenity. Dive deep enough and your body follows. If Grievous sent scouts to double-check our expired mortality, the Force-trance would ensure their scanners picked up squatly, on accounting our hearts were beating at like, one thump per five minutes. And that Force-user…." Ro shuddered at the memory of his mind brushing up against hers. It had been a male, of that she was certain, but a _corrupted_ male. His presence in her mind had been cloying, foul; a choking mist that had flashed toxic green in her mind and burned her skin, instead of cooling it.

"Force-user?" Wren didn't try to hide the skepticism in his voice. "What the _gfersh_ are you talking about, _cheeka_? Dooku's parsecs away from here."

"Just like Grievous was supposed to be dipping toesies on Saleucami?" she retaliated. "Or are you suggesting he's letting his good twin take the _Hand_ for a space cruise? And it wasn't Dooku." She said the last part with great assurance.

Ro'd crossed paths with the fallen Jedi only once, when he'd come to Ansion to win the Unity Council to his cause, bare weeks before the First Battle of Geonosis. Nothing dramatic, she'd only listened to his speech from one of the upper balconies of the municipal hall, just one spectator amongst hundreds and he'd never even so much as glanced her way. But once had been more than enough. Count Dooku had the kind of presence that stayed with you long after he'd brushed the dust of your home from his fine cloak; it was as refined and elegant as a rare vintage of Corellian wine. That _other_ though?

"Then fekking who?" Wren challenged.

"I don't know." Ro gazed out at the stars, but her attention was focused inward. Despite the darkness of the other Force-user's mind, his startling _strength_ , his touch had been uncoordinated, almost clumsy. It had reminded Ro of a nearsighted giant attempting to swat a gnatfly. No finesse, but a hunter's instinct, and that comparison stirred her memory. "There were those rumors from Devaron," she mused aloud.

Something in her lap squirmed and whimpered. Surprised, Ro glanced down and was met with a pair of golden eyes set in a blocky, snouted face. Poorsa gave another whimper, the tip of its long tail giving the barest of wags.

"Oh, my poor little fluffball." The strill was partially buried beneath Ro's arm, but when she tried to lift it, pain hissed through her body, a sharp reminder of the ordeal she'd put them all through.

"'Kay, not so goodly think." She caught Wren's eye, jutting her chin out at him in challenge. "You gonna let me take away the ouches, Mr. Grumpy Cookiepants, or suffer in manly silence?"

The lines of his face hardened into granit. "Just fekking do it."

She did. Being in physical contact with him and Poorsa made it easier; she touched their Force-presences, delving deep until she found the pooled shadows that were pain and injury. She tapped those shadows, redirected them until they flowed through her and into that golden center at her heart, where they were absorbed and washed away by the great ocean of the Force.

By the time she was done, about ten minutes had passed and she was drenched in sweat and panting. Instead of durasteel-stiff, her muscles felt like an overcooked chaka noodle. Listlessly, she watched her right hand begin to rise under null-grav, without stiff muscles to lock it in place. She still held the surge protector she'd ripped from the console. Now she released it and the component went flying.

 _Least it's still in one piece; we'll have to jam it back into the wiring before jump-starting the systems again._

Freshly revived, Poorsa squealed in surprise at it suddenly began to float as well, pumping all six of its legs frantically as if hoping to dig them into the air itself. But all the strill's efforts only caused it to flip upside with its own inertia, loose folds of fur drifting about its tiny figure.

The image was too much for Ro. The little Jedi dissolved into gales of laughter. Its dignity mortally wounded, Poorsa gave a huff and tried to kick its hind legs, as if doing a roll. All that achieved was another mid-air tumble until the strill bounced off the cockpit's ceiling like a stray bolo ball.

Ro shrieked with laughter and would have bounced herself straight out of the chair if not for the crash harness.

Next to her, Wren glared at them both as he tested his limbs before unclipping the harness from around his chest. He started to drift upwards immediately, but caught himself easily with one hand to the ceiling and his foot hooked beneath the armrest of his chair.

"We need the _crinking_ power back on," he said. He was a looming shadow in the half-gloom, but his eyes caught the starlight and sparked. "Longer we sit here with our naked-fekking-arses exposed, the more kriffed we'll be."

"You sound grumpy." She managed to dredge up a smile for him. "Me would have thinks this be your kind of holo-action funsies."

A muscle in his jaws jumped, he was clenching them so tightly. If Wren had been the akk dog she so often compared him to, he would have been one big bristle. "Just get that karking piece of fekked-up junk you call an astromech online, _cheeka_."

He turned in the air, as graceful as a dancer. Ro, who'd yet to rejoin the world of solids, wanted very badly to throw something at him. Preferably something very heavy and loud. Luckily for Wren, the only object close enough for throwing purposes was Poorsa and the surge protector. The latter was too small to make an impression on the trooper's permacrete head and the former too cuddly.

"Yes, _lorda_. Right away, _lorda_. At your command, _lorda_. And may this poor unworthy ask where His Sunshineness is heading off to in all his curmudgeonly glory?"

If his back went anymore rigid, Ro thought, he'd splinter.

When he spoke, Wren's voice was tight with anger and it dawned on Ro that she might have scored a point in their on-going game of verbal thrusts and sallies, but that this time, she might have also gone a bit too far.

"I'll see what I can salvage of the engines and power couplings, with your permission, _Commander_."

He was down the hatch and out of sight before Ro could either give permission - or apologize.

With Wren gone, all of Ro's pretense at strength vanished. She slumped into the chair, with nothing but the crash harness to keep her in place. Her body shuddered, then shook; sweat dampened the hair at the temples. Her head was pounding, pain rolling through her in great waves that crested and threatened to swallow her whole.

 _Belated reaction,_ she thought dizzily. _Just the stress, the exertions, catching up to me._

"Stellar," she croaked and the sound of her own shaky, broken voice struck her as immeasurably funny. Poorsa whined down at her; the strill was paddling its feet again, as if trying to swim towards her. Ro would have laughed again, but instead, she leaned over to one side of her chair and promptly threw up.

In null-grav.

Pressing her hot forehead to the cool metal of the armrest, Ro said, "Fan- _mui_ -tastic."

* * *

 _Later…._

On his second try, the power cells still refused to connect with the cooling unit. Wren spat a curse and flung the hydrospanner to the floor, momentarily forgetting the lack of gravity. The 'spanner bounced off the floor and nearly smacked him in the forehead as it went sailing past. Wren managed to duck, but the force of his movements sent him flying backwards and he hit the back of his head on a protruding fuel pipe.

"Fekking kark of a nerf-herding _bastard_."

He wanted nothing more than to kick the nearest effing piece of machinery, but managed to control the impulse. Barely. Instead, Wren slowly reached behind him to grip the pipe, stopping his flight. His fingers tightened around the pipe until the skin over the knuckles turned white.

This wasn't helping. Wren bit the inside of his cheek, forced himself to close his eyes and count slowly to ten. It was an old trick, one that always made him feel childish, but it worked. When he opened his eyes again, the buzz between his ears had receded, his heartbeat had slowed and he no longer felt like getting his blaster and turning everything to slag - specifically, one little nuisance of a Jedi.

Shaking out his hands, Wren grabbed the hydrospanner from where it floated in the vicinity of his ear. Though he'd been working steadily in the engine compartment for the better part of thirty minutes, his body still felt stiff, brittle; not like muscles, flesh and bones at all, but more like pieces of rotten wood held together by frayed pieces of cord. There was a lingering numbness in his extremities, which made the more finicky repair work a misery. Worst of all, the scar that stretched over the middle of his back like a bursting sun itched madly. The more he moved, the more his other complaints faded, but Wren knew that itch was going to stay with him for days - the phantom kiss of an electroprod.

The cooling unit began to waver, to be replaced by the shining white floors of Kamino and the grey armored boots that had been his last sight of Jango Fett. Wren slammed his hand into the cooling unit, driving the memory away…..

The cooling unit gave a _bleep_ and started humming.

Wren rolled his eyes. "Fekking figures."

Well, that was at least one thing going his way.

Wren pushed away from the cooling unit, grabbing the penlight he'd jammed between some pipes as he did so. Lights were still off around the ship and away from the viewport, he didn't even have starlight for illumination.

Gripping the penlight between his teeth, Wren began pulling himself through the engine compartment via the piping. He'd never liked null-grav exercises back on Kamino, but Wren had to admit this was a far easier way of moving through the tangled guts of the ship. _Mockingbird_ was spacious for a civvy craft, but she'd been built long, rather than wide, by welding two separate hulls together and as a result, the engine compartment was rather cramped. Under normal circumstances, the ship was deep enough for Wren to move through the compartment in a slight crouch, rather than on his hands and knees. Though his broad chest and shoulders forced him into an awkward sideways shuffle. Truth be told, he didn't know how the kriff Shiv had managed during the ship's construction; the elderly Shistavanen was taller _and_ broader than even Wren. The null-grav spared the trooper's back, if not his mood.

The power couplings were his next destination and they were in even worse condition. The electrical surge had melted two-thirds of the wiring and part of the circuit switchboard. He'd have to get replacement units from the cargo hold, whose hatch was currently sealed due to the power outage.

Wren ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. Kriff it. That hatch was triple-plated durasteel. Cutting through it with a torch would take hours. If they restored power to the cockpit first, then maybe Ro or the clanker could override the emergency protocols. _If_ the hatch controls weren't as fried as these couplings, that was.

 _Ro should use her vaping lightsabers to cut through, since this is all her vaping fault._

"Your face is gonna carbon-freeze like that."

Wren whirled, propelling himself straight into the far end of the engine compartment, back once more slamming into the machinery. His hand was already up and before the sentence had finished, he'd flung the hydrospanner straight at the voice.

Ro yelped and twisted to the side, barely avoiding getting brained by the 'spanner. She lost her grip on her own light and the glowrod went spinning, casting jittering points of light through the dark corridor.

"Fierfek, _cheeka_." Wren hauled himself out of the engine compartment, grabbing at Ro's flailing leg to pull her down at eye-level with him. "How many kriffing times do I have to effing tell you _not_ to vaping _sneak. The fek. Up. On Me_?"

Ro's oval face scrunched up into a glower. She might have looked fiercer, if her button nose didn't wrinkle like that of a vexed Nelvaan squirrel or if her hair, which had been wrestled into a long braid, didn't curl above her head like a question mark.

"You'da heard me stellar if you hadn't been clogging your ears to the background hum of verbal excrement. Go suck on a roonan lemon, Cookie, you can use the sweetening." She seemed to think about this image for a moment, then abruptly started snickering.

Wren pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand, wondering if he'd get away with throwing her after the hydrospanner. But Ro had so much bounce to her, she'd likely wind up rebounding about the entire ship.

"Whenever you're done laughing at me, _cheeka_ ," he ground out. The sound of her merriment grinded against his nerves.

 _But that's not what's really bothering you_ , a taunting voice hissed in his mind.

Ro stared at him, astonished. "I've never laughed at _you_ , Wren. And I'd never. You know that, surely." The words were firm, but her voice was uncertain.

Wren let go of her ankle, pushing her away from him. Ro wheeled, but managed to catch hold of a bulkhead, as Wren turned his attention back to the power couplings.

He did know. Ro was many things, but cruel wasn't one of them and it wasn't her laughter that had gotten under his skin so thoroughly. No, it was the _ease_ with which she abandoned her moods.

Wren might not have liked introspective thinking, but he was self-aware enough to realize that a large part of his problem was his inability to let things go. Less than an hour ago, Ro had been snapping mad, hurling verbal volleys at him with deadly accuracy. Now she was laughing, eager to joke with him, all her former anger forgotten, while _he_ remained a stewing mess of resentments and rages, barely held in check and some almost a decade old.

The rage was _always_ there, simmering at the back of his mind, flavoring his every action and word with a heat that had kept him alive for almost twelve years. But fek it all, at times like these he downright _envied_ Ro. Her moods were as mercurial as his, expressed with the same passion, but she _let go_ and moved on whenever the whim took her.

"Wren?"

He'd been staring at the couplings for too long, he realized. Ro was peering down at him from the top of the engine compartment, hovering a good foot over the deck plates. She had one hand outstretched towards his shoulder, but had thought better of touching him at the last moment.

"What?" he snapped.

And there was that damnable shrewd look of hers again.

"What's bothering you?" she asked, teal eyes sharp with more intelligence than anyone had a kriffing right to.

"You," he spat back. "That droid of yours; the _crinking_ strill; this effing ship. But above all, always fraggin' _you_."

Hurt flowed over her face in ripples; the full lips of her mouth quivered, but firmed again just as quickly.

"No. You've been tolerating me and mine for months now. This grumpy saurian hornet buzzing your plastoid britches is new."

He couldn't withstand that searching gaze for long. Given half a chance, Ro was capable of finding what she wanted and Wren wasn't ready to admit to the source of his latest irritation to himself yet, let alone her.

"You'd have better fixed that effing clanker. I need the spare parts from the cargo bay to get this junkpile working again."

"To address your change of topic, I _did_ fix Artee. He's up in the cockpit, all a-beep over the damage and predicting our imminent doomshour via asteroids, space debris, laser cannons and vac-gremlins. Now, care to name the grub that's crawled up your nostril?"

He bristled - at her demanding tone, her continued pestering presence - and turned, ready for a fight, fists clenched at his side. No doubt it was a good thing - for both of them - that she was out of easy striking distance.

"Why don't you crawl back to your fekking clanker and the sack of drool and leave me the kriff alone while I try and repair the ship from your _rescue efforts_?" He spat the last two words.

Ro teetered where she floated mid-air, only just remembering that she couldn't prop her fists on her hips under null-grav, but her voice dripped with haughty pique. "Oh, so mono massively sorry for inconveniencing you with my life-saving measures, Grand Master Ammo-for-Brains. _Puh-leaze_ , be kind, rewind and point out to me all the moments of our shootout with the armed armada showcasing _your_ masterfully strategic input on our survival, so I may learn from the mouth of experience himself. Jerk."

The words were a lash and stung. Wren bared his teeth, letting the anger flood over the sore point Ro had touched, but it was already too late.

 _Too fekking shrewd for her own karking good_ , he thought again.

Ro blinked before her eyes widened in understanding. She gaped at him. " _That's_ what's been buggering you? Because _I_ had the saving think-flash your pride got a swift kick in the egocenter?"

He wished she hadn't put it like that. It made him sound like a spoiled, pouting youngling and he hated her all the more for that.

The thin Padawan braid gently slapped against her cheek. Ro waved it aside. "Wren, we're partners. It don't matter who got the think, so long as we pull through together-"

Wren hauled himself out of the engine compartment until he could sneer right into Ro's face.

"You've got no fekking clue, _cheeka_. None."

"Then _tell me_."

 _Because I used to be the one coming up with all the ideas. I was bred to be the best of the best of the best and while I had to live amongst the grunts, I was the best. Smarter; faster; deadlier. And I couldn't think of a_ crinking _thing except make the ship go faster._

The words were on the tip of his tongue. He'd been holding them in for so long, Wren could taste how sweet it would be to finally say them outloud. But Ro was too smart. She had already pieced more of his past together than any officer he'd had before; she could work miracles with the barest crumb of information. And the source of his pride - wounded and tattered as it was - was more than a crumb. It was fraggin' half of the whole effing cake. More than enough to get him killed.

And beneath the pride, there was fear. Of all the clones, ARCs were the only ones who dared to talk back at Jedi; to question orders, to tell Jedi to their face when they were being reckless glowsaber swinging fools - because ARC troopers were _that_ good. But the more he was around Ro, the less Wren was able to escape the fact that she was _better_ than him. She'd been the one to get them a better mission; she'd saved him from murder and a quick trip to Kamino on Nerrif and she'd saved both their lives with her quick thinking and today hadn't been the first time that had happened, either. If this silly git was better than him - _smarter; faster; deadlier_ \- then Fett had been right to cast him amongst the regular troopers.

Wren didn't think he could bear being the grunt in this partnership. It would be a blow he wasn't sure his pride could survive and without his pride….he had nothing.

This time, Ro let her fingers graze the collar of his shirt, just below the pulse in his neck. "Wren, won't you tell me?"

The anger was still there - his constant companion - but he was suddenly weary as well.

"Just get the vaping cargo bay door open, Ro," he said, pushing her hand away. The motion also pushed her further away. "I need those _chizk_ parts for the engines."

What passed over Ro's face then wasn't sadness, exactly, or pity. He would have struck her, if it had been the latter. No, her expression was one he'd seen very rarely, most recently in the cargo bay as she'd gotten ready to leave after his last angry outburst.

It was a vulnerable look, full of questions, doubts and loneliness and this time, the right word to describe it came to him.

 _Forlorn._

"'Kay, I'll go tell Artee. About the door, I mean." Ro snatched up the glowrod from where it had come to rest at a ceiling joint. She looked at it, then back down the dark corridor. "Why can't you trust me?"

Her voice was so quiet, he was sure she hadn't meant for him to hear. But he did and still refused to answer.

 _Too many fekking crumbs._

* * *

Artee greeted her with a volley of fretful, beeping complaints. The astromech had once more magnetized his treads, so at least she didn't have his solid bulk floating about the confines of the cockpit. Poorsa still drifted happily before the viewport. The animal had adapted to null-grav conditions quickly, going from a miserable, whimpering little ball of fur trying to sink its claws into anything even remotely stable to paddling at the air with legs and tail as if on a swim, finally graduating to total acceptance of this new circumstance and taking the occasional playful bite at the tip of its own tail as it floated by.

At least strills didn't upchuck under null-grav. Having to clean up her own mess had been more than plenty for Ro.

At the sight of her, Poorsa yipped and gave a wag of its ridiculously long tail, causing the strill to slowly spin around its own axis like a top.

Ro cracked a weary smile at her pet's antics, before telling Artee, "Wren wants the cargo bay hatch open ASAP yesternoon, Artee. Think you can do the finagle?"

The droid interrupted his probability predictions of being cooked in a solar flare with their shields down to beep at her accusingly. Restoring hatch functions was not amongst the top five priority systems that required repair after a major malfunction. There was also a hull breach in the cargo bay area that might cause pressure destabilizations at a possible rate of 12.09045 percent, with consequences such as lung collapse, embolism, blood clots….

"I know, Artee, I know." She raised her hands in a useless gesture to ward off the flow of statistics. "But Wren needs the spare parts in the bay. Let's see to it he gets them." She sighed. "Maybe it'll brighten his mood."

Artee made a rude sound that might have been a snort in an organic being. Such chances were so minimal, the astromech informed her tartly, not even _his_ algorithms could calculate the odds.

Ro chuckled. Shiv had once told her that the R3 units had all of their predecessors' brains and none of the R2s' guts. She supposed that might be true. Artee's tendency to worry his processors into catastrophic overheating and subsequent shutdown - or "fainting fits," as Ro thought of it - certainly spoke for her adoptive father's assertion. But cowards often made the best observers.

 _Artee's right. Nothing he or I do will ever lighten Wren's attitude towards us._ The thought made her unbelievably weary. She liked arguing with Wren; one of her favorite things about the trooper was that he could keep up with her in verbal and physical spars. But the quiet times in-between, where it seemed they were _almost_ getting along, almost like friends and partners, were hard to find and short-lived.

She'd told herself it was just Wren's prickly nature - that he needed time to feel comfortable around her and she needed to be patient. Shiv kept telling her how solid partnerships needed time and patience. Eda just told her to chuck Wren out the window of a flying airspeeder and get a better model.

Ro gave an experimental push off of the lip of the hatch, trying to aim for the pilot's chair. She managed to overshoot her goal only by a meter and strapped into the chair without too much fumbling.

She _was_ trying - at being patient, not the high speed defenestration - but it felt like she was the only one.

"That's not true, Ro," she admonished herself. "Cookie tries. In his own, small, granite slug pace." Back on Ansion, he'd started to leave the door to his bedroom open from time to time, in tacit permission for her to barge in and bug the juice out of him. She could practice her instruments when he was cleaning his gear and would sometimes explain their purpose when she asked. Not always, but…..sometimes.

She treasured those small moments, his tiny gestures of friendship, because she understood how monumental they were, coming from so closed a personality as Wren. But after three months, he still didn't trust her and that battle was starting to wear her thin.

 _And if he never does, what then?_ It wasn't the first time she'd asked herself that question, but it was certainly starting to take on more immediacy in her mind. Her work as a Jedi investigator wasn't all tumble bunnies and nova lilies. She hunted down dangerous people and since joining the war effort, the danger levels had been climbing to Defcon-red-blinking-overload. That wasn't exactly the environment she wanted to share with someone whom she liked, but who didn't trust her and barely seemed capable of tolerating her presence for more than five minutes. And Ro wasn't sure she _had_ the time anymore to be patient and let Wren come to her. The war couldn't go on forever, though it seemed that way now. Sooner or later, even this bloody wave had to crest and fall back.

A cold nose to the nape of her neck made Ro jump and squeak in surprise.

Poorsa made a series of yips, obviously pleased at having caught its mistress by surprise.

"You naughty fluff." She made a swipe for the strill, but Poora whipped its tail about like a propeller and floated out of reach.

She'd never been meant for brooding and at her pet's antics, all of Ro's laughter returned in force. They made a game of it, she trying to snatch at the strill and Poorsa evading, until Artee squealed a protest on how the viewport was already damaged enough and the weight of a strill - even that of a scrawny pup - was likely to crack it further at a .523 percent probability.

"Phooey," Ro grimaced at her droid, but he was right. The crack in the viewport was neither big nor leaking air - testimony to Shiv's security measures. Still, they would have to lower the ion shields - heavy durasteel plating - before risking planetary re-entry. Under the pressures of superheated atmo, no doubt the crack would expand and the viewport shatter and then their nunas really would be cooked.

"How's the cargo bay hatch coming, Artee?" she asked. Poorsa tried to nip the end of her floating braid. Ro whipped the braid out of her pet's reach and stuffed her hair down the collar of her shirt.

The hatch was open, Artee told her, and repairs were under way.

With the main control console largely destroyed, Artee was hooked up to the secondary systems lining the cockpit's far wall. A quick glance showed Ro that more than half the board was covered in little blinking lights again, most red and orange. Even as she watched, though, more green lights began to appear.

"Stellar. Once Cookie's done repairing the power couplings, start rerouting power to the engines and cloaking device."

Artee beeped a protest. What about life support?

"We've got air for another twenty-four hours." Though after twelve, it was going to get thin, not to mention the cold of space was beginning to leak through the hull. "We should be on Garqi before then," she told herself.

Which reminded Ro that she had tasks of her own. One of the damaged control panels had already been pried loose and wedged in a corner, to keep it from floating about. Now Ro went back to inspecting the wiry guts of her ship's ' _brain_ ,' slender fingers sorting through circuit breakers, wiring and crystalloid chips. She took out what was damaged and tried to fix what was salvageable, but it was slow going.

Poorsa, sensing that playtime was over, made a dejected little _rhuff_ sound and floated towards the viewport, where it sprawled, all six legs extended, against the transparisteel. Thin globs of drool started dripping upwards from the strill's jaws as it watched the debris pass by outside, golden eyes tracking the individual pieces with a hunter's attention.

With its shields down, a debris field of this size could easily mean the death of every starship. But though it shuddered and rocked, _Mockingbird_ remained firm in the face of several minor collisions, thanks to a triple-plated hull with a chromium core. It was what had kept the ship mostly intact under the torpedos blast wave and what prevented their air from running out, despite several minor breaches in the outer layer of hull.

A comfortable silence took hold of the cockpit, broken only by Poorsa's occasional excited whine, as some piece of debris came especially close. Ro tuned it out for the most part, until the strill suddenly threw back its head and _howled_.

Ro and Artee both jumped in surprise, Ro clutching at her shirtfront over her suddenly thundering heart.

"Great steaming gas giants, Poorsa, what's the mat-"

Between the howls, there was a faint _taptap_.

Ro's eyes went to the viewport. The hand still fisted in her shirt tightened, then started to shake. Behind her, Artee let out a quivering wail.

It had been one of those new ARC-170 starfighters, before plasma fire had nearly sheared it in half. Two of the characteristic x-wings were missing, revealing slagged engines beneath the deep gauges. The transparisteel cockpit had been shattered; the clone pilot was still in his seat, kept in place by the crash harness.

He was upside down, his hands dangling past his head and through the shattered hatch, like a youngling suspended from the monkey-lizard bars. Velocity had let him drift close enough to the _Mockingbird_ so that his right hand gently tapped against their viewport, as if asking to come in out of the cold.

Her eyes were drawn to that gloved hand, then past it. For the first time, Ro truly _looked_ at the scattered debris spreading out over Garqi's horizon. Most of it was the remains of a Star Destroyer; the ship had broken up into three pieces, with more falling away even as the shattered cruiser was drawn into the gravity well of Garqi's primary. The doomed cruiser's crew might have gotten off some escape pods, but….

The dead clone pilot's hand pointed her towards a thin cluster of white dots, which she had taken for ionized air before, and now realized were more bodies - more clones, their white armor twinkling in the sunlight.

"From water you are born."

Ro gasped in surprise and whirled about as far as the harness would allow to find Wren floating over the hatch, one foot hooked under the final rung to keep him in place.

He met her startled eyes briefly, then turned back to the viewport, that strange light once more suffusing his Force-aura: not _awe_ , not _eagerness_ , but kissing cousins.

Wren continued, "In fire you die. Your bodies seed the stars." His attention never left the drifting corpse, but when he did finally focus on her, he wore the worst smile Ro'd ever seen; a humorless affair that looked frozen between hysterical laughter and a snarl.

"Welcome to the Wars, _cheeka_. My effing kind of place."

She drew her legs up to her knees and quickly turned away, so that he couldn't see her shiver.

Outside, the dead trooper's hand scraped across the viewport, up and over until he was out of view.

 _His_ kind of place.

Ro didn't doubt _that_ for a nanosecond. She just wasn't so sure about herself.


	13. Patch Job

**Author's Note:** This'll be the last chapter for 2015. I'm going on a short hiatus for the holidays - doing the family thing, tree and cookies all inclusive. I wish you all a very merry season, a good start into the new year and I'll see you all again, January 6th, 2016.

* * *

 **Chapter Thirteen: Patch Job**

 _"Life seems so much simpler when you're fixing things. I'm good at fixing things. I always was."_

\- Padawan Anakin Skywalker to Senator Padmé Amidala, Tatooine

* * *

 _Three hours later…._

It. Was. _Frigid._

Ro rubbed her gloved hands together, dimly hoping the friction might just let her hands burst into flames. By now, all the residual heat had been leached out of the ship and she and Wren had been forced to don thermasuits to keep working. She tried to tell herself that the cold was mostly in her head, that the carbon fiber inlay of the suit was keeping her nice and toasty. But it was a tough sell when every time she sneezed, it was like being inside a snow globe with her breath frosting her bangs and nose hairs.

"Next 'plode-around," she told the cracked viewport and cold air, "I vote to get smeared across the sol-side of a crispy star."

No answer.

Ro screwed her eyes up at the ceiling, gamely blabbing on. "Sure, blue's _just_ my mono prime color and no being in the stars wouldn't want to meet the Maker and attending deities in anything _but_ stellar color-coordination, but the shivers are so _bombad_ cramping my style and you can't just jive to the drive of chattering pearly-white denticles and my wee biters _are_ a snow-pearly sight to beholden, which kinda bends around backwards to the whole subtherma theme we're shovel-digging on this set, which I sub-suppose is really kinda sorta neat, 'cepting the whole freezing my _choobies_ to permanent closed-curtain exit scene."

She looked about the cockpit expectantly, waiting for a reply - a much put-upon electronic whirr; a half-amused, half-annoyed shut-the-kriff-up-before-my-ears-start-to-bleed.

Her only answer, though, was the creak of vacuum-cold durasteel and the sputter of a fusing pen.

Ro glanced at the corner, where Artee was ensconced, busily bridging slagged circuit crossings in the secondary computer systems, before turning towards the black hole in the cockpit.

It wasn't just space that leached warmth.

Wren was bent over the control console, trying to repair the navicomp and pointedly ignoring _her._ The fusing pen's thin, red laserbeam turned his naturally tan skin dusky and cast the new bruises into shadowed pits. Smoke curling up from the sliced wires added the sprinkles to the sinister frozen-treat of his profile.

Ro rolled a can of sealant foam between her fingers, eyes shifting from it, to the crack in the viewport she'd doctored, then back to Wren. The silence was beginning to wear on her.

 _Third time's the charming._

Putting as much chipper in her voice as she could, Ro said, "You know, we've got ourselves here a _dramatic_ moment. The kind where, if this were a holovid, audiences would be crunching their kernel-pop to the sound of heavy breathing, ominous tunes and unauthorized comlinks. Face it, gents and beings, we're box-office-credit-hit-material."

In the background was Artee's fretful muttering and prophecies of doom. From her partner, _emtix_.

 _This_ , she realized, _isn't working._

Poorsa's head popped out from between the folds of her clothing, golden eyes alight with sympathy. The pup whined - it liked being ignored no more than Ro did - and tried to wash her face. Ro gave a half-hearted grin, pushing the strill's wet nose away from her ear. She appreciated the show of support, if not the face-bath.

Thwarted in its efforts, Poorsa heaved a sigh and snuggled back against the warm layer of the thermasuit. The strill knew better than to wiggle about, lest it be expelled from between the layers of shirt, thermasuit, coat and warm Human skin, for which Ro was grateful. While having Poorsa as an additional heating pad was stellar and all, she did not relish sharp little claws from six powerful legs tickling her ribs.

Wren's barbed silence was already drawing enough blood.

And frankly-quite, Ro was getting tired of being pricked. She'd given him his space after their blowout in the corridor, hadn't asked him a single one of her quadrillion questions about Grievous and his looming lunk-clanker army and hadn't _once_ tried to share her feelings about being adrift in a graveyard of ships, droids and troopers. She thought he'd break the silence, as he'd done when first returning to the cockpit, but since, his communications had dwindled down to the occasional grunt.

'Kay, so she was fem enough to appreciate a trace of caveman in her mascs, but this was starting to blow asteroids. She just didn't understand where this new _sullenness_ was coming from. His Force-aura wasn't aiding any, either. Wren was lightning dipped into liquid nitrogen, the Force wound so tightly around him that it would shatter and bleed something unpleasant at the merest nudge.

A more patient person might have let the situation simmer until Wren had reached his own boiling point and was ready to spill. But Ro was cold and tired and desperately needed to use the 'fresher, which, along with the rest of her ship, was currently a posterchild for an ' _Out-of-Order'_ sign company.

So patience could go and rotate. Whether Wren was punishing her for earlier, or catching up on his missed brooding teenage years, she was going in keister-kicking.

"You knows, Cookie, _yousa_ and that _dey_ Artee-droid gots _mui bombad_ lots in common-like."

When Wren looked up from his work, turning sharply towards her, he was met with her sweetest, most innocent smile. Impossibly, his Force-aura grew even more rigid, _snapping_ at her as if it were an akk dog warning her off.

She smiled into the warning, putting enough honey into her voice to coat a spacescraper.

 _Tocks and ticks past to whack this akk dog with my unabridged dictionary._

"You've both," she cooed at him, "got domed craniums of durasteel and just as many ball bearings."

The explosion that followed was stelltacular.

"Kriffing Nine fekked _H_ _ells_!"

His fist slammed down onto the console and Artee squealed in surprise and dismay. Flushed, eyes hot and dark with rage, Wren would have lunged at her with the snarling, reckless fury of a wild animal, if not for the crash harness keeping him in place. But the snarl twisting his features was impressive, even without the added intimidation of height.

"What the fekking _gfersh_ do you _want_ from me, Ro?"

From spacial cold he'd gone nova-hot, but Ro refused to flinch away from the fire she'd ignited. She could be as perverse as he was, so she leaned in, into the heat and lightning of his presence, until she could have reached out and bit his nose.

Poorsa yelped in alarm and dug deeper into Ro's coat.

"Funarious, Cookie, seeing as I was just about to ask you the same thing."

" _Don't_ kriffing call me that."

"Yeah?" She would not give him the satisfaction of showing her hurt. " _Well_ , seeing as His Grumpiness abdicates the crown of smartest, toughest cookie in the glittering Rim, how's 'bout we try out new titles for that chipped mountain on your shoulder? Buckethead always suits. Or jerkwash, for retro's sake."

He grabbed her by the shoulder, shaking her roughly. "Are you fekking _blind_ as well as kriffed out of your skull?" He jabbed a finger at the viewport, to the Separatist blockade encircling bright, purple Garqi. "That's General-karking-Grievous out there, _cheeka_ , and we're fraggin' dead in space without effing life support or a vaping laser cannon and you're arguing over _nicknames_?"

His proximity, the force of his emotions - they bore down on Ro like a hammer. The mind-block clamped down like a vice, keeping her anchored in the moment with pain that was, for now, yet a distant thrum. Ro grit her teeth - against it and Wren - and forged ahead.

"Better a childish conversation than no conversation at all. Or," and her voice dripped with scorn, "did you _want_ me to read your mind?"

"I'm trying to kriffing _save us_! Had I known the _commander_ needed a _crinking_ blow-by-blow…." He was too furious even to finish the sentence. Abruptly, he shoved her away, flinging Ro back into her chair as he swiveled his own around.

His fists found a bulkhead and his scarred knuckles slammed down. _Hard_. Wren was beyond rage now; the usual cracks of lightning of his Force-aura had merged to a single current that was deep and ferocious and as red as freshly spilled blood.

She should have been cowed; his right fist was clenched so tightly around the fusion pen that its outer casing creaked. But it was hard to be scared when, despite the violence of his temper, he was deliberately putting his rage to durasteel instead of punching _her_. He could be cruel and savage, but Wren _did_ try not to hurt her - physically at least.

Ignoring the whimpering lump in her coat, Ro reached out with one hand and tentatively brushed her fingers against his shoulder.

His body was hard as rock beneath her touch, every muscle excruciatingly tensed.

" _Don't_ ," he hissed.

Her first instinct was to soothe him through the Force, but Ro pushed that down. Instead, she used her voice and hand.

She ran her fingers over the sleeve of his coat, lightly enough that she barely creased the material. Ro took a deep breath, girding herself against the wash of emotions, until she could skim across the taut tendons of his wrist and white knuckles. His fist was shaking with the effort to restrain himself.

"Shhhh." She tried to make her touch as unintrusive as she could, barely ghosting over the pattern of fine scars that ran along his knuckles and fingers. Still, Wren flinched; his hands jerked, as if trying to decide whether to grab her arm and break it…..or pull her in for a bruising kiss.

It was always one or the other with Wren - he'd never learned to touch any other way.

The thought never failed to sadden Ro, but she'd grown accustomed to pushing her pity aside; Wren could barely deal with sympathy as it was and he despised pity.

"I'm sorry."

His hands stilled beneath hers. Wren's eyes slitted open, enough so that she could see them gleam in the reflected light of the debris field.

Ro licked her lips and tried to swallow away the slightly metallic tang the cockpit's charged atmosphere left at the back of her throat. Even Artee and Poorsa were quiet.

"I'm sorry," she said again, eyes dropping to where her fingers were drawing little circles on the back of his hands. "That wasn't the hyperlane I wanted to nav this conversation down."

How to proceed, though?

Wren's eyes were burning holes into her skull and her pulse jumped and quickened; _expectation_ under a skin-thin layer of _patience_ pressed against her lungs and made her blurt out the first thing that came to mind.

"Though how I'm supposed to keep that particular mesa goat from being skinned with you being such a mono prime example of jerkicus grumpi nicks the beats out of me." Then, unable to keep her traitor mouth shut, she added, "You're _bombad_ irritating."

 _Molting monkey feathers. Way to go, Ro._

Wren's nostrils flared and Ro steeled herself for the explosion….

And then he smiled.

He tried to hide it, covering his mouth by pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, but it lit his face for just half a heartbeat like a sunrise.

" _I'm_ irritating?" Despite the growl in his voice, the Force was brightening between them, relaxing, as if heaving a great sigh of relief. "Oh, _that's_ fekking rich."

His eyes were still gleaming in the semi-darkness of the cockpit, but with unmistakable mischief instead of rage.

"Rich in truth." Her tongue was loose again and running away with her, but it felt good this time. She fought a smile of her own and donned her best scowl instead, the one she thought made her look tough, but secretly knew made her look about as threatening as a baby bird fluffing its feathers. "You, Cookie, are spearheading the top of the irritation bell curve."

He moved marginally closer, instinctively putting her in his sights. "This from the fem who could commit fraggin' suicide by jumping off her high ronto down to 'tolerable.'"

She matched him, leaning into her crash harness until Poorsa yipped in protest of being crushed. "If you were twice as tolerable as me," she shot back, "you'd _still_ drive an Arconan to lick salt from his wounds."

Riveted, Artee and Poorsa watched the verbal volley, heads swiveling back and forth with every insult.

"A _cheeka_ like you is _crinking_ hard to find these days. As pleasant as a handjob from a Hutt wearing spiked crushgaunts."

Their breaths mingled in misty plumes.

"You'll never be the man your growth jar was."

"You…" He grappled with an adequate response, but instead of clever insults, Wren suddenly snorted with laughter. "You…" he tried again, but could only shake his head, one hand splayed across his face as if to hold back the tide of laughter.

"What?" Ro asked, as bewildered as she was delighted by this sudden bout of hilarity. It wasn't often that she'd surprised real, honest-to-Force laughter from her partner, untainted by sarcasm or scorn. It was….nice. More than nice, if she was honest. Wren's laugh was like black velvet, smooth and deep and it stripped his face of years of pain, cynicism and rage until the bones of the man he might have been were laid bare.

It was a sight that Ro never grew tired of, even as it twinged her heartstrings.

"Me, what?" she asked again, fighting her own urge to laugh. She liked to laugh and laughing together was best of all.

Wren propped his elbows on his knees, his bruised nose held gingerly between thumb and forefinger, as if that and the crash harness were all that was keeping him upright. He was still shaking his head, chuckling, and when he lifted his eyes to meet Ro's, there was a wicked light in them.

"My _growth jar_?" he repeated incredulously and was off again, laughing until she thought tears might leak from his eyes - if he were any other man than her Wren, that was.

Ro blinked, then looked down at her chest, where Poorsa had twisted about until the strill could meet its mistress' eyes. The two shared a long, bewildered look. Then Ro's lips started to twitch. The twitch soon turned into a full on smile and before long, Ro was off in a paroxysm of giggles, images dancing through her brain of pumped-up transparisteel jars marching up and down parade grounds throughout the galaxy, blasters and spiffy caps tilted at precision angles.

As she slumped in the pilot's chair, holding her belly as much from laughter as to keep Poorsa from sliding out, Ro was aware of Wren's eyes on her. He was watching her, not as warily or resentfully as before, but with a smile tugging at the scarred corner of his mouth. The expression on his face was….downright fond. Or close enough for tea and biscuits.

"You're the barviest saber-bitch this side of the kriffing Rim, you know that, _cheeka_?"

She gave him a loose-shouldered shrug, Poorsa nipping at her chin playfully. "What you call barvy, I brand genius."

"There's a fine line, I'm told," he drawled. "If that's the case, you'll sure as all vaping hells never find it."

Ro _tsked_ at him, and snagged her braid that had worked itself free of her collar before Poorsa could give it a good chewing. "Too late to be trying to score clever points _now_ , Cookie," she admonished in a sing-song. "I _so_ mono totally won this round."

Wren's good mood curdled slightly, like blue milk left a little too long out in the sun, but enough of the smile remained for Ro to give a playful tweak to his nose.

Wren jerked back, and Ro laughed at the look of indignation on his face.

Scowling, he rubbed at his nose, then inspected his hand, as if checking for cooties.

"You know those nice moments you're always talking the kriff about?" he said. "That was almost one."

The scowl remained in place, but his rage was nothing more than a distant rumble of thunder on the far horizon of his Force-aura, so Ro gave him a 'sorry not sorry' shrug and tousled the loose folds of fur on the strill's head, still tucked beneath her chin.

"Summing the considerations of how we started, ' _almost_ ' is major process."

She peeked at him from under the safety of her bangs, gauging his reaction to this less-than-subtle poke.

But Wren wasn't looking at her anymore - his attention had wandered to the viewport, the floating graveyard and that tight-packed ring of Sep ships around Garqi. One thumb was busy rubbing over his knuckles, back and forth, back and forth, as he thought over something hard.

Ro just watched him and would have continued to watch, letting the silence settle, if Artee hadn't chosen that moment to remind them of his presence.

Beeping and whistling, the little astromech proudly announced that the repair works were done, then promptly switched to mournful fretting. Power had been restored to seventy-six point oh-four percent of the systems, but the shields were fried and required a dry-dock repair. If the enemy ships didn't detect the sudden energy spike from their engine-ignition - a thirty-one point one-two-two percent likelihood - atmospheric reentry was likely to boil the lube in their tubings at a possibility of twenty-seven point nine-seven-three-four percent and climbing!

Ro happily nodded along. At the end of the tirade she announced, "Sounds like my kind of odds."

Artee gave a despairing wail and turned his domed head back to the secondary computers, prepping the reboot sequence.

Ro grinned at Wren, cocking her head in challenge at the trooper. "Garqi deep mode penetration, the second get on. Ready to shake your afterburners, Cookie?"

Wren tore his eyes away from Grievous' looming flagship, snorting in disgust. "Only you could make near-suicide sound like a fekking porn-vid title, _cheeka_."

It wasn't a fix, but it was a bacta patch on the scrapes of their partnership. She'd take it.

She clapped her hands together, smiling huge and sundry at all assembled. Cheeks puffed out and breath misting white before her face, Ro Arhen, Padawan and kick- _choobies_ specops agent primedinare, was ready for action.

"'Kay, then. Here goes _emtix_."

Now, if only they could get that 'fresher working….


	14. Riptide

**Author's Note:** Due to unforeseen circumstances - Darth Real Life and the fact that no good deed goes unpunished - I'm extending my hiatus until February. I apologize for that, and the brevity of this chapter, but that's life, gentlebeings. Take a message at the frowny face - :P - and if the Force is with me, I'll be back February 3rd.

* * *

 **Chapter Fourteen: Riptide**

 _"The calmer the waves, the more treacherous the waters are."_

\- Kaminoan proverb

* * *

 _Later…._

 _Mockingbird_ had lost most of its sensory capabilities - including the proximity and targeting arrays - but Wren didn't need any kriffing sensors. He could _smell_ the fekking clankers.

And the droids were going barvy; vultures and hyenas alike swarming with the frenetic energy of blood flies disturbed from a fresh carcass.

Three hyenas suddenly peeled off from the main swarm, banking hard left - _straight_ towards their ship.

"Fek."

"Steady, Cookie."

The hyenas' laser cannons heated up, sparks of red framed perfectly by the freshly sealed crack in the viewport, then they let loose.

A volley of plasma shot across the _Mockingbird's_ port side wing….to obliterate the half-melted remains of a starfighter.

The shockwave was close enough to sent shivers through the entire ship, while ripples of light moved unsteadily over the viewport. Half a dozen lights flickered from orange to red and back again on the patched control board, vanishing into the red glow of the emergency lighting. Somewhere, deep in the ship, the pitch of the engines took on a high, keening tone that was barely audible, but noticeably vibrated in the marrow of Wren's bones.

The hyenas pulled up, overflew the site of the destruction - flew, in fact, directly over their heads - and returned to the swarm without ever knowing just how close they'd been to the _Mockingbird_.

Ro let out an explosive breath and confirmed what Wren already knew. "Cloak's still holding." She cast him a quick look, before pointedly studying the starscape outside the cockpit. "That ain't being a phenomenal think."

Distracted, he snapped, "What?"

She blinked at him, as if surprised he'd responded at all. "Don't be believing Krell's gonna be all gratitutionally inclined if we steal his plasma thunder."

Before he could ask her what the fek she was going the kriff on about, her eyes dropped to his hands. They were curled around the cannon controls, so tight his knuckles stood out, white and strained, even in the dim lighting. He hadn't thought about it - hadn't even noticed - just reached and taken hold on instinct alone.

They still had two working laser cannons. He could have shot those _crinking_ clankers out of the sky and they'd never have known what hit them. His thumbs were even poised over the firing buttons; a single tensing of his muscles would have done the job.

 _And not half a vaping second later the entire kriffing Sep fleet would have opened fire on our position._

Cloak or no, _Mockingbird_ wouldn't have been able to escape that kind of barrage.

And yet….

His eyes tracked back to where the _Invisible Hand_ hovered just outside the tightly woven blockade of ships, the system's single sun picking out the faint yellow markings along the dreadnought's hull.

Going on sublights, _Mockingbird_ was finally breaking through the edge of the debris field, coming out almost directly beneath the waiting frigates - in Grievous' shadow, so to speak. Close enough, in fact, to send a few well-placed plasma shots up the barve's ass and blow the fekking cyborg to all Nine Hells.

Which would, again, end in them going down in a blaze of reprisal fire.

And for a moment, Wren was tempted - seriously tempted - to take the shot anyways. Because his back was crawling with tension and all the fine hairs along his arms stood at attention and it was _good_ , fan-kriffing-tastic. It was the thrill he'd been seeking - _craving_ \- for weeks; that serrated edge that cut through bone and muscle, bleeding away the uncertainty and frustrations.

 _"In fire you die."_

Why the kriff not?

Except….

He was aware of Ro's eyes still on him and without turning to see, Wren knew she was wearing that all too shrewd look on her face again. Ready to analyze him; to read him like a holonovel and skip to her own conclusions.

It was an effort, but he pried his hands off of the firing controls and deliberately set them to checking the cooling fluid levels in the engine compartment. He _did not_ look at Ro even once the entire time.

He did, however, keep watch over Grievous' flagship from the corner of his eye, until they hit atmo and the blast shields came down, cutting him off from the red-hot inferno of reentry and the _Invisible Hand's_ looming presence.

* * *

 _Pesktda Spaceport_

The journey took entirely too long.

No manner of threats or violence would move the droids manning the hangar to obey _him_ , instead of the abomination, forcing Savage to circle the hangar like a caged nexu, lashing out impotently at whichever of the machines dared to come within his range. Not until the last of the frigates had fallen into position around the planet did Grievous give permission for Savage's personal flyer to leave.

Maneuvers. _Games_. Grievous hid behind these paltry displays of power because he could not face Savage himself. Because despite his collection of trophies, Grievous lacked that truest of power: the dark side.

Yet Dooku's orders restrained Savage as much as the cyborg's lack of the Force; his Master's wrath cut into his flesh, restricted his blood flow as effectively as any chains.

So there was no bloodshed; only spilled lube oil as Savage stalked away from the decimated remains of an astromech and towards his ship.

By the time his personal ship landed on the spaceport's pitted duracrete, Savage Opress' mood was as dark as the night reigning outside.

"Greetings, s-sir. And welcome to Garqi."

Savage looked over the meager collection of battle droids that had come to greet him at the hangar, led by a single Human officer in the Separatist's customary grey uniform. His lip peeled back; he had not missed that slight stutter in the Human's words, nor how the blood had drained from the officer's face when Savage had unfolded himself from the cramped interior of the cockpit.

 _This one is afraid._

As he should be; Savage could have crushed the man with nary a thought. But to show his fear so blatantly….

Disgust, thick and hot, welled inside of him. Had this one been a Nightbrother, he would have been culled long before reaching maturity.

Feral was always afraid, too.

His brother's face swam before his eyes, as vague and indistinct as the reflection in a milky mirror. All Savage could clearly remember were Feral's eyes, how wide they'd been as his hand had closed around his brother's throat, pleading with Savage even as the life was choked out of him.

So full of fear. That was his brother to the core.

Savage shoved them all aside; Feral's memory, the Human with his frightened eyes. He plowed through the droids standing at attention, shattering their neat lines and sending them scurrying.

"I require transportation," he announced to the hangar. The floodlights made his shadow dance in all directions.

"There's a planetary curfew and speeder traffic is currently restricted." The Human was scurrying after Savage, not quite daring to physically restrain the Zabrak.

 _But he wants to._ Savage could taste the man's humiliation and it was sweet.

"If this could wait until dawn," the officer went on, gesturing about the spaceport, "we have quarters for-" He broke off in a gasp as Savage whirled. The lightsaber was already in his hand, cool and lethal and Savage thrust the emitter beneath the Human's chin.

 _Snapp-hisss._

There was no time for the officer to react. The crimson blade shot out the top of his skull, filling the hangar with the smell of burnt hair and cooked meat, atop the scent of oil, grease and ozone. The body jerked once, a final death throe as failing nerves misfired.

Savage deactivated the lightsaber and the body crumpled to the ground.

The bay was silent. Droids and techs had come to a stop to stare at the scene. The droids were expressionless, blank spaces in the Force, but the organics were clearly shocked, afraid; in response, the dark side sizzled in Savage's veins. It was as if a thousand tiny electric currents were racing over his bones, past his sinews, making his muscles taut. He looked at the hand holding the lightsaber and felt the strength to crush the world in his fingers.

But he also felt….empty.

 _Through power, I gain victory._

This was a victory, paltry as it was, but this worm had dared defy him and Savage had crushed him in turn. He had the power, as he'd told his Master. That was why he'd survived the Choosing; why his Mistress had chosen him as her tool for vengeance:

He. Was. Power. And victory would be his. And hers.

The blood should have been coursing through his veins, hot and heady; his heart thundering in his ears as he raised his weapon high to a dark and endless sky and shouted his triumph to the stars. Instead, he stared down at the corpse and thought, _Pathetic_ , and wasn't quite sure if he meant the officer or himself.

"I require transportation," Savage repeated, looking up from the corpse to stare down the occupants of the hangar.

The droids stared back impassively, the oblong heads, perched atop spindly necks, cocked at a slight angle, giving them the appearance of tan birds frozen in carbonite. Without their organic officer to do the thinking for them, they were reduced to immobility.

No one else in the hangar moved; the Force was a choke hold around Savage, with everyone else holding their breath.

He ignited both ends of his lightsaber, feeling the heat of the twin blades beat against his fingers.

The wets scurried off like the frightened vermin that they were, diving into their cubbyholes. Savage sneered at their fleeing forms. If he slaughtered them all, would the thrill of battle surge through his blood, then? His instincts said, yes. The dark side whispered it into his thoughts, how sweet the smell of blood would be against the stink of lube oil and superheated duracrete.

He took a step forward….

...Count Dooku's grim face flashed before his eyes, one hand outstretched, fingers aglow with lightning….

Savage stumbled back, shaking his head vigorously.

No. Killing these vermin was not his task. His rage must be focused on the mission his Master assigned him - only if he completed it would he prove his right to stand at the Count's side, to be his willing servant.

As Asajj Ventress once was, before she'd been betrayed and abandoned.

His chest heaved. Every breath felt as if Savage were forcing it through the pinhole that had become his throat. His lightsaber still hummed, but the _vvvzzzmmmm_ of the twin blades cut his ears, the slight vibrations from the hilt were pinpricks in his fingers.

Savage shut the saber off, carefully clipping it to his belt.

He closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, trying to control his racing heart. There was sweat on his brow, running between his vestigial horns, yet when he brushed one thumb over his palm, his skin was cold and clammy.

 _Focus_ , the coils of green mist whispered, spreading through his mind until they filled every corner. _Do not drown in the river._

Yes. His Master was a wise man. Savage should strain to follow his advice. His _order_.

When he looked back up, the hangar was deserted, save for the squad of droids that had been his welcoming committee and a handful of service droids, busily making repairs to the pitiful collection of starfighters and the more numerous vulture and hyena droids.

Most of the organics - as well as the smarter droids - had fled, and aside from the occasional flare of a blow torch, it was so quiet, that Savage could hear dimly shouted orders and the _clomp-clomp-clomp_ of heavy droid feet coming from the adjacent bays.

"You," Savage pointed at one of the B1s in the reformed column, its tan body striped with yellow. "Show me where you store your speeders."

Watching the battle droids look at one another was unnerving. The gesture was entirely humanoid, but they lacked any kind of expression, any means of expressing the purpose of the gesture, other than a random line of programming, installed in a bid to make the inorganic seem more organic.

Or perhaps they were conferring on the wisdom of following his orders. He had just killed their commanding officer, after all. For all Savage knew, they were searching their memory banks to decide whether to obey, or try and detain him for questioning.

The yellow-marked B1 stepped out of the ranks of his fellows, blaster cradled against its chest. Savage's nostrils flared, but the B1 saluted with its free hand. When its three fingers touched its head, there was a hollow _clang_.

"Roger, roger," it said, in a droid's typical high nasal. "If you'd follow me, sir?"

The droid turned smartly on one foot and marched back to its column. The other B1s let it pass, then formed up behind it, following at a measured pace. The whole maneuver was done in an eerie symmetry that was utterly perfect, yet without a jot of grace.

Savage followed, sneering at a pile of crates where he sensed several Humans hiding. But he stayed his hand and let the vermin live.

He was not here for them.

Not this time.


	15. Do the Tussle

**Author's Note:** What was it about good intentions and the path to hell? This was supposed to be a _short_ hiatus and I instead ended up falling off the edge of the galaxy. Somewhere out there, a higher power is laughing its ass off at me. I wish I could promise that it'll never happen again, but that's life folks. It tends to bite you in the tiddlywinks.

Thanks to all my readers, for their patience and for sticking with this story. You guys keep me going. Major stellar thanks to **laloga** and **spikala** , those wonders of the stars, for kicking me into gear whenever I did want to give up. Now, here's the story.

* * *

 **Chapter Fifteen: Do The Tussle**

 _"Thank you for flying Jedi Air. Have a nice afternoon."_

 _"You're all insane."_

\- Jedi Knight Bardan Jusik and RC-1207 ("Sev")

* * *

 _Somewhere outside of Pesktda_

Backstabbed with his bare ass on display. Ambushed by Grievous. Torpedoed. Electrocuted. _Force_ -tranced and crashed. And now, stymied by a kriffing _door._

Hell of a day and they weren't even at the main event.

"I thought techno-gizmos' supposed to be making my life-days all stuffed tooka dolls and chocolate drippings?" Ro kicked the central lifter, barely avoiding a squirt of hot lube oil with a cry of exasperation. "This _ain't_ the way to a Neuvian sundae."

"Fekking forget it, Ro." She'd been trying to intimidate the entry ramp's hydraulic pistons into working for the last ten minutes. "It's fraggin' dead. Compose a _crinking_ eulogy, but get your vaping ass to doing something useful."

The glower she shot him sparked beneath the red tint of the emergency lights. There wasn't a trace of laughter left on her face; evidently, even _her_ kriffing vast storage of cheer had a bottom and she was finally scraping along it.

"I _am_ useful," she shot back. "All kinds a useful, the likes of which you've got no thinks."

The cargo bay door - their only way off the ship, unless they wanted to break out the solder-blaster and _carve_ a new exit out of the hull - was thoroughly stuck. The central lifter hadn't done more than clear the door a few centimeters off the deck plates before calling it endex. They were going to have to do this manually.

Wren ran his hand along the gap, testing the space available, before wriggling his fingers through. Back to the door, he braced and _pulled_.

The hydraulics squealed like stuck roba, before descending into a quick, phlegmy series of _ratta-tat-tat's_. Steam _hissed_ from somewhere to his right, hot and humid.

Ro added her strength and the cargo bay door began to slide - _slowly_ \- upwards in fits and starts. More rumbles beneath their feet as the entry ramp first extended, then started lowering in concert, like a broken jaw.

One of the pistons heaved a stuttering _clank_ , and both the cargo bay door and entry ramp came to a sudden halt. Wren, caught in mid-pull, felt his knees pop as his entire weight was thrown against an immovable, uncooperative sheet of triple-layered durasteel.

"Fierfek." He freed his hands, cracking the knuckles to get some circulation back into his fingers, before rounding on the culprit for this steaming pile of _poodoo_. "Way to bring the kriffing ship _down_ , Ro. You couldn't have fraggin' turned the ship into bigger fekking scrap if you'd tried."

Ro was too busy trying to catch her breath from their efforts to immediately reply. They hadn't managed to scroll the thing up more than twenty centimeters, and though he liked it tight, no fekking way was he squeezing through _that_. Butt braced against the stuck cargo bay door, with her hands on her knees, Ro blew the sweaty bangs out of her eyes before snapping, "Like _you_ could have improved on the performance. Now, why don't you do us duo both the favor of sticking the 'tude up the front of your backside and putting that recently filled spine to the application of disjamming the door so we can make like a pair of wonderhawks and get the h-e-double-something-stick-like _out of here_."

He should have been annoyed. More, he should, at this point, been ready to grab the fekking astromech and throw the blasted tinnie at the door _and_ the head of its fardling mistress. But the anger was like a distant rumble of thunder in his ears, pushed to the background at the sight of the Jedi - little, barvy nuisance - all flushed and flustered, puffed up like a bird pushed from its perch.

 _Too kriffing good to pass up._

So he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his shoulder casually against the cargo bay door, managing to loom over the much smaller Ro. Knowing it would infuriate her all the more, Wren quirked an eyebrow at her, before drawling, "'H-e-double-s _omething-stick-like_?' Careful, _cheeka_ , you're getting dangerously close to an _adult_ vocabulary."

"You-" Even in the thin moonlight streaming through the crack under the cargo bay door, the bright red of Ro's face was impossible to miss. "You-you…"

His smile stretched into a smirk.

It was like watching an agitated puffer pig run around its pen, blowing itself out of all proportions. It might not be a _good_ idea, but there was just no question of resisting the urge to prod further - especially when the stick was already in hand.

"Go on. Use your words."

"Stick your words where the dictionary don't turn."

"Oh?" His second eyebrow joined the first. "Guess that means _I_ win this round."

She looked like she wanted to jump him - and _not_ to get into his pants - and might have done so if she'd had a little more energy to scrape together. Instead, she tried another glower, before doing a sudden double-take.

Ro looked at her partner, at the stuck door and ramp and her partner again, with a concentration as if she were calculating navpoints without benefit of a navicomp, only to wind up staring at Wren in narrow-eyed suspicion. "Are you _teasing_ me? Now? 'Kay, what's with the sudden happy, on accounting you're making me paranoid. Did getting a-rattled-bout like benta beans in a crushed can switch the flip on your grumpy circuits to reverse, because even you can't be scoring on the perverse-o-meter high enough to enj…."

The hydraulics unlocked all at once and the cargo bay door snapped upwards without warning. Suddenly bereft of their support, Wren and Ro stumbled backwards, feet skidding along the deck plates until they fell off the edge of the half-extended entry ramp.

Troopers were hard. The ground was harder.

Flat on his back, Wren had a panoramic view of the star-littered sky through the hole _Mockingbird_ had torn in the jungle's canopy.

Next to him, Ro got onto her hands and knees, spitting grass, dirt and invectives a three-year-old would have been proud of.

"Shnookerdooking fudge berry of a fungicidal dirt-packed, low-hanging _planet_. Stop _laughing_ , Cookie!"

* * *

If given her druthers, Ro'd have happily dipped the moon in tar, found a nice fuzzy blanket to crawl under and a tub of double-chocolate muja-swirled frozen treat to drown her sorrows in.

Her ship was a mono-blessed, primed unstellar _disaster_!

Even forgetting the wreckage on the inside - if only willful amnesia could bend reality to her will! - from the outside, _Mockingbird_ now bore a dishearteningly striking resemblance to a badly plucked nuna left too long in a roaster set on " _zap_."

A good percentage of the outer hull was buckled; bits of the ferroceramic coating had been chipped off, while the duralloy plating was…. _rippled_ in some areas, much like the ripples left in wet sand by the constant movement of the tides.

Hitting atmo with no shields did that.

Worse, the paint job that had given her ship its distinctive dramatic flair - a painstaking mural of multicolored feathers - was blackened and charred past all recognition. Here and there, Ro could still make out a solitary dot of color, but those did more harm than delight her heart.

And that was _just_ the cosmetic damage!

Wren's silhouette appeared atop the ship, balanced for a moment on the vessel's "neck," before sliding down the bent wing, dragging the camouflage net after him.

Ro watched his acrobatics half-heartedly, too preoccupied with trying not to wail over her beloved ship's state.

Bad enough they'd gotten shot at by Seppies, torpedoed by Grievous, then electrifried by herself truly. But with that warped wing, most of their stabilizers out and one landing gear blocked, there'd been a lot more _crash_ than _landing_ involved in their arrival on Garqi. In fact, the ship's nose was half-buried in dirt, with a good ten-meter long furrow in the jungle behind it.

All prettily illuminated by a most indecently cheerful full moon. She really, really, _really_ wanted to jab something with her lightsabers. Many times.

With a groan, Ro hid her face in her hands. Sweet chewy Almond-kwevvu Crisp-munchy, how was she _ever_ going to pay for the repairs? Shiv would give her a break on the installments, but she was going to be paying for this ship until she was as dotaged in and wrinkly as Master Yoda. Lying next to her, Poorsa looked up at its mistress and gave a sympathetic whine.

A pair of blunt fingers flicking against her ear rudely pulled Ro out of her musings.

" _Ow_!"

Heart almost pounding out of her chest in fright, Ro whirled, to find Wren looming over. Smirking.

 _Jerkface_.

"Cookie! What the nuna fricassee was that for?"

Poorsa, too, had been caught off-guard by the trooper's sudden appearance. At Ro's cry of surprise, the strill pup had jumped to all six of its spindly legs. Now the short bristles of its fur were all standing on end, as if it had plugged its too-long tail in a socket.

Wren's only response to the fright he'd given Jedi and pup was to raise a single, dark eyebrow.

Her partner, Ro thought acidly, really was a master of eyebrow manipulation. With a single quirk of one, he could convey both amusement, arrogance and a total mono lack of concern for his most- _bombad_ adorable, long-suffering partner and cutetastic pet. If he weren't so abso-stellar-utely handsome in the moonlight, she'd have shaved every last bit of hair off his body weeks ago.

"Careful, _cheeka_. Your self-pity is starting to mar your Jedi's holier-than-fekking-thou aura."

"I am _not_ self-pitying." She crossed her arms over her chest and thrust out her chin in an effort to look anything _but_ sorry for herself. Then had to grimace at the unmistakable whine in her voice. "'Kay, so maybe I'm wallowing. A little. This much with hat." Ro held thumb and forefinger out, about a hairsbreadth air left between the two digits.

Wren snorted.

"Hey, I'm entitled, alright?" she protested. "Firstly, we nearly get blown to sprinkle size. Then on secondly, my ship gets double-dunked crispy fried outie and innie."

Wren glanced up, in a manner suggesting he was beseeching the moon for patience. His Force-aura was _very controlled_. "And third?" he asked, sounding as if he were punching each word through his teeth.

With a cry of exasperation, Ro stomped her foot. "One and two are _plenty_!"

Poorsa let out a hoarse bark. _It_ , obviously, utterly agreed with her.

Wren pinched the bridge of his, mouth grown tight. He struggled for a moment, the Force around him fluctuating as several impulses fought for control. Finally, he hissed, "Try it a bit louder, _cheeka_. Don't think Grievous heard you yet."

She blinked, startled. "Wha-Oh." It finally dawned on her. Of course, they were standing next to a meter-deep trench caused by an obvious illegal landing, with a ship registered as a positive kill by the head clanker hisself and no amount of camp-netting was gonna disguise _that_ fact. While in _enemy territory_.

"Oh," she said again, in a voice barely audible. Her cheeks flamed, until she was sure they could have lit candles from the glow of her face alone.

Yeah, maybe an indoor-voice was called for.

She quickly stooped to scoop Poorsa up into her arms, hiding her face in the protesting strill's fur. "Wren, I'm sor-"

He cut her off with a swift gesture of one hand. "While we're on the subject of General-fekking-Grievous, you need to tell that stanging clanker of yours to get his fekking gears moving and fix the fraggin' comm system."

"Uhm…." She gently tugged at a loose fold of Poorsa fur, ignoring the pup's struggles to get free. She somehow felt like an idiot for asking, but she had to know. "Why? Not that being mono talk-a-able isn't up my hyperlane, but shouldn't Artee be using the tocks of non-discovery to fix engines and, ya know, get the ship somewhere…. _less_ crashed upon? 'Cause big smoking hole might be a clue even a battle droid could follow."

Wren peered closely at her, _bemusement_ and _irritation_ coloring the Force around him a thick, prickling burgundy - very much like having a pine cone shoved up one's nostril. He looked like he was trying to decide whether she was deliberately playing dumb, then, realizing she really _was_ clueless, heaved a sigh.

"You got dropped on your head during this mission?" he asked, exasperated.

"No more than usual," she muttered, then straightened, Poorsa pressed against her chest. "So why not educate me, Wise One?"

Instead of answering, he grabbed Ro by the shoulders, spun her around and pointed her chin up at the star-spangled night sky.

"Remember when we almost got fekking slagged? By _Grievous_? Who, according to Intel, is supposed to be in the Saleucami system."

Maybe she _had_ been hit in the head. She certainly felt clobbered by her own oversight. _How_ could she have forgotten about that fact?

Seeing understanding light her face, Wren took a step back and a deep breath. He felt _disgusted_ ; a neon-green slime of an emotion both directed at her and the universe at large.

"And you're supposed to be a fraggin' commander; my _superior._ " He gave a snort. "Why we don't just hand the whole _chizk_ over to the Seps…." He cut himself off, shaking his head. "Krell's already in hyperspace by now, _if_ he kept to the schedule. That gives us about twenty-eight hours before the _crinking_ light show starts."

"And before Master Krell runs his ships aground an ambush," she finished the thought. Ro turned to Wren, wide-eyed with understanding. "He'll be counting on Sep reinforcements having hauled jets by now, but not an entire armada headed by Grievous. Master Krell and his men are gonna be paste."

"Yeah." Wren, too, eyed the deep velvet of the dark sky; his expression and Force-aura was distant, disconnected, as he relived some memory. "Unless we can warn them." The distraction abruptly left his face and when he faced her, his eyes under the moon were as hard and dark as flint. "So tell _your_ fekking astromech to get those _crinking_ comms on _your_ effing ship to working." And he stalked away.

Ro stared after him, blinked, then raised an uncertain hand to her cheek. Poorsa wriggled around in her arms, _whuffing_ quietly.

She'd missed something; and it had just slapped her in the face.

* * *

 _Later…._

"Where the gahoots are we right now?"

 _That_ , Wren reflected, was the eighty-six credit question.

He and Ro were hunkered down in the starboard shadow of the ship, under the bent wing's bow. Here, the camo-netting created a nice little cave, where they could keep an eye on all possible approach points, without being seen first. He only wished Ro had left the kriffing strill outside. Strill's _stank_ and though Ro bathed and washed the pup with a smell-canceling soap every second day, the little animal still retained a certain musk. It was a smell that was deeply embedded in Wren's memories, none of them pleasant and though he was beginning to acclimate himself to the pup's presence, that didn't mean he didn't still have the urge, on occasion, to boot the damned thing out the nearest airlock. Right now, he'd have been content with kicking it out of their temporary shelter. At least the vaping droid was out of his hair and busy fixing the comms.

Wren flexed his wrist, activating the comlink and attached holoprojector hidden in his right bracer. Blue light washed over them and Wren instinctively moved, so that his body shielded the light from outside notice. Their crash landing hadn't attracted any curious patrols yet - if Krell had done his job, Traffic Control was still digging itself out of the rubble - but he hadn't survived this long by taking too many undue chances. Sooner or later, someone was going to remember seeing a flaming, ship-shaped ball come down in these parts and come investigate. They had to be gone before that happened.

But to be gone, they first needed to figure out where the _crink_ they were on this backwater Rimmer planet.

As the tiny map of Garqi solidified above his wrist, Ro tilted his arm to get a better look. Poorsa tried to stick its nose into the holo, and Ro gently clamped the curious strill between her calves. The pup whined before flopping onto the ground, sighing in defeat. Ro gave it a quick rub, before focusing back on the holo-map.

The blue light of the holo cast the scraps and bruises she'd collected during their brief fight and aborted landing in an unforgiving light. She looked _battered_ , like one of those females from the HoloNet help-service advertisements.

He'd been equally bruised, but the worst of the damage was quickly healing thanks to a healthy application of bacta. Which meant, anyone looking at the pair of them, was likely to think _he'd_ put those bruises on Ro.

He hadn't, of course, but…. _Almost_ , a snide voice in the back of his mind whispered. _And maybe someday, you really will_.

Wren gave his head a sharp shake, uncomfortable with the direction his thoughts had taken. He'd hit and killed women before, and men. But they'd been trying to _kill him_ as well; he'd only gotten them before they could get him.

But not everyone he'd ever hit had gone at him with lethal intentions. Like that louie back on Nerrif…

"'Kay, so here's Pesktda - goal of the hour." Ro pointed at a spot on the map, neatly bringing Wren back to the here and now. Obedient to her finger, the holo zoomed in, until the roads leading in and out of the capital were clearly defined. "And best guesstimate we're about," she glanced upwards, though she couldn't see the moon through the camo-netting; it'd been more than halfway towards the horizon last they'd looked, "east of here?" Ro gestured at a wooded area several klicks from Pesktda, then looked at Wren for confirmation.

Wren studied the holo-map, changing the angles and zooming out a little more to study the lay of the land outside the capital. Most of the planet was covered in fields or thick patches of jungle and Pesktda was the largest settlement on the whole planet.

"Looks about right. Which means the nearest road back to Pesktda," he jabbed a gloved finger at a snaking light-blue line in the holo, "is this one."

"The Vlassy Road." Ro let out a long breath. "So we could be anywhere middle of short and longish eight-hundred klicks from the target zone. That's a lot of stepping-do, Cookie, and I left my rocket heels back under my bed. What're we gonna do?"

"Walk," he said shortly and canceled the holo-feed.

Ro groaned. "I was fearing you were gonna speak that."

At least the weather was pleasant, Wren reflected as he retrieved his pack from the ship and jumped back down from the - _still_ \- only partially extended ramp. He'd done hundred-klick marches in everything from suffocating heat to blistering cold; in rain so hard, the droplets had felt like rubber pellets, leaving him drenched _and_ bruised. Garqi _could_ get hot, according to the database in his HUD, but at the moment, the night was rather mild and the sky clear.

Which wasn't one-hundred percent positive.

No clouds might mean no rain, but coupled with the exceptionally bright moon, that also meant enough illumination to be spotted a klick away. If they were careful, alert, such a clear line of sight could be used to their advantage, but overall, Wren would have preferred the cover of an overcast night sky, even if it had meant slogging through the rain and mud.

A light _thump_ announced Ro's arrival.

"Ready and revving, Trooper Cookie. Whereto?"

She'd changed. Wren had to blink and take a step back to fully appreciate the metamorphosis. Gone was the bruised and sullen, pintsized Jedi. He assumed a professional touch of makeup was covering the damage her face had suffered the past few hours, and while that would probably not hold up to close inspection under better lighting, she certainly no longer looked as if she'd gone ten rounds with a berserk ronto.

Somewhere along the line, Ro'd also recovered her good humor, for she laughed quietly as she twirled in place, the better for him to admire her new getup.

It was…conservative, given Ro's usual tastes; thick-soled, calf-high boots; brown breeches tightly laced, too keep from getting caught in the jungle and a beige tunic, belted at the waist and long enough to hang down to her knees, giving the impression of a skirt. The only concession made to Ro's love of color was a rose-colored poncho. And the hair, of course. There was no way of toning _that_ down, though the tight braid she'd wrestled her mass of hair into was mitigating some of the dizzying effects of the dye job. And Ro's head wasn't going to be the only purple thing around. Fact was, with the moonlight washing the surrounding plants a unified shade of dark purple, it was like Ro was wearing her own version of a camouflage net.

 _Better make sure I don't fekking lose her in the underbrush_ , Wren thought, with some amusement. He could just see himself sending the report:

 **MIA: ONE JEDI: . ROWEEN ARHEN (PAD: FEM). LAST LOCAL: GARQI: JUNGLE. ID MARKER: BRIGHT PURPLE HAIR. REQUEST S &R: STRONGLY ADVISE USING SWEET BAKED GOODS & HIGHLY ATTRACTIVE MALE PERSONNEL AS BAIT. LT. WREN (CT-20-4371) UNABLE TO ATTEND DUE TO RISK OF STRANGLING SUPERIOR OFFICER ( . R. ARHEN) UPON RETRIEVAL. MR.**

Maybe Zey would finally have that apoplexy he'd been threatening for the past three months.

Before he could stop her, Ro'd gone on her tiptoes, in his face and pinched his cheek with abandon.

"You're so _cute_ when you grin like that, Cookie. Pure fudged deviltry; I could just lick you up."

He hastily slapped her hand away and took several steps back, because with Ro, you just never effing knew.

She laughed at the expression on his face. "Serves you right."

"For fekking what?" he demanded, rubbing his abused cheek.

"For whatever nasty think made you glow up like Trip Zip on Happy Republic Day."

 _Trip Zip?_ Wren groaned, hiding his face in his hands. "You've been listening to those fraggin' RCs again, haven't you?"

Every time she went to the Special Operations Brigade HQ to report to Zey, Ro'd detour to Arca Barracks and come back with the latest in military slang. Coupled with her penchant to pepper her Basic with alien, if not outright made-up, words, Ro'd sailed right into new heights of incomprehensibility. Plus, she was starting to get a reputation in Arca; one that _hadn't_ been helped by filling the water tanks feeding into the barracks' showers with whipped cream.

Was it any wonder he daren't show his face around the place?

Not that Ro cared. "I _like_ 'em," she declared. Hands flying to her face, she gave a happy sigh. "How can a fem resist? All that _armor_ and me with my hands idling and nothing better to doing than dig into my inner topato peeler and see if they're as hunky beneath the _katarn_ as in it. Now's there a survey I'd like to conduct."

"Is there a single fekking appropriate thought in that barvy head of yours?"

"I'm not a tart!" she protested, before suddenly tilting her head to one side, eyes fixed on him. They studied his face, then slowly moved down across his body. When she met his puzzled gaze again, Ro was smiling; a slow, sweet smile that put his hackles up. Wren nearly jumped out of his skin as she suddenly snuggled up against his chest, rubbing against him like a tooka cat in heat. "Though I wouldn't mind you being the hot blumberry sauce all over my crumble."

He pushed her away; he _had_ to push her away. " _Down_ , Ro. For kripes sake, don't get your panties wet. You've only got so many changes of underwear."

She wrinkled her nose up at him. "Ew, stop talking about my undermentionables, Cookie. There's such a thing as boundaries a girl's gotta insist on."

" _You're_ talking about boundar….Never mind." He hastily checked the position of the moon and frowned. "Fek it. We need to get the kriff moving, _cheeka_. Moonlight's wasting."

"Right." She threw him the sloppiest salute he'd ever seen outside of the cloning crèches and started in the direction of the road. The wind rustled through the leaves, bringing with it the very faint sounds of repulsor traffic. And one _very_ peculiar sound; muffled, but too close to miss.

"Ro, did your backpack just _bark_?"

Uh." She glanced back at him, flashing a weak, unconvincing smile. "Must'a been a bird?"

He grabbed her by the poncho before she could make a break for it, hauling her back to his side. He flipped the pack open….and was met with the adoring golden eyes of Poorsa, nestled atop one of Ro's spare shirts.

"Oh, _hell no_."

"Cookie-"

"The strill is _not_ coming with us." That was final; he was putting his fraggin' foot down on this one.

"Well, we can't just leave the poor wee thing here."

"Yes, we can, and guess what? We effing are." Wren took her by the shoulders and turned her around, back towards the ship. But being the stubborn karking Jedi she was, Ro dug her heels in. Literally.

Slipping out from under his hands, she confronted him, hands on hips and feet planted firm, like a miniaturized drill sergeant about to give a dressing down.

"We needa commo Coruscant, righto?"

He threw his hands up into the air, at the end of his already limited patience. "What the _gfersh_ has _that_ got do with the weight of tibanna on Mustafar?"

Now she was looking at _him_ like _he_ was a few platoons short of a full assault.

"Leave Poorsa and Artee alone in an enclosed space, while the latter's servomotors deep in finicky bits of wiring? There won't be enough left of my ship to send a single squawk to order deep-fried donuts at the local grease-cantina, let alone send a rerouting secrety commo past the hundred winkles of hyperspace right into Master Yoda's privacy sphere. How's that, weight-wise?"

Oh, she looked so kriffing smug right now. And what was worse, she was effing right. _Damn it_.

"So let the karking strill run wild. We're in a jungle, _cheeka_. It can catch a womp rat or whatever."

"Poorsa's too little, Wren, and you know it. Sideways, whatever'd be able to fill this bottomless fluffpit would have jaws big enough to swallow little strills in one chomp."

Maybe he really should strangle her. At least he'd have some peace and quiet after they executed him for killing a superior officer.

Before that, though, he'd try a different tack: appealing to the good sense he was convinced she didn't have. "Ro, we're supposed to keep a low- _crinking_ -profile so as _not_ to get slagged. Carrying a rare animal around in your backpack on a planet that probably can't even count how many legs a strill has, doesn't fekking seem to fulfill that requirement. But what the fek do I know, right? Maybe it's just kriffing me."

"It's just you, Cookie." She tugged at the straps of her pack, jiggling the strill pup playfully in the process and was rewarded with an enthusiastic washing of her neck.

Fekking disgusting.

"And really," she continued in a singsong, " _yousa_ shoulda thought'a dat before rescuing this wee cutie. A pet's a lot of responsibility, Cookie."

"I didn't-"

"And weren't we in a hurry? I recall seemingly happy-hour-ending consequences, grumpy cyborgs and inconsiderate deadlines."

"Ro."

By now she was a master at ignoring him. Putting one boot up on a rock, she pointed westward in a pose right out of a recruitment poster. "Onward brave trooper. We _march_ , towards the dessert line."

Oh, for kriff's sake.

"Ro." He heaved a long sigh and began massaging his temples; he was feeling a headache coming on. "That's the wrong fekking direction."

* * *

 _Later still…._

Garqi was mainly an agricultural world, so Ro had fully expected the road to be nothing but hard-packed dirt. Somehow, that seemed to fit into her mental image of "agricultural." Well, doodles to her assumptions, because no sooner had the jungle begun to lighten, then her boots hits duracrete.

"Huh." She lifted the sole of her boot, to inspect the dark road in the light of the waning moon. "Look at that, civilizati- _hey_!"

A hand clamped over her mouth, even as she was pulled roughly back into the underbrush.

"Kripes, will you shut the fek up?" Wren hissed into her ear.

From her backpack, Poorsa squeaked a protest. With one arm around her waist, Wren had pulled Ro flush against his chest, squashing the poor strill in the process. Wren cursed and loosened his hold, letting Ro scoot forward enough to give the pup some breathing room. She promptly twisted around far enough to slap him upside the head.

"What the _gfersh_ …"

"...was that for?" Ro finished in a hiss.

He stared at her, tension and anger in every line of his face….and body; she'd felt _that_ quite well enough, thank you, even through the clothes and hard angles of the body armor he wore underneath. She'd rather not repeat the experience. Not that it wasn't a mono prime delight-deluxe to be playing topsies to his dips, but Force-wise, it was like landing on an aggravated spike-finned sounder.

"Does the concept ' _enemy territory_ ' have _any_ effing meaning to you? You _can't_ just vaping break cover like that."

"We're dressed as civvies, Wren."

"And this planet just got the kriff kicked out of it." He drew one hand over his face - Ro could taste the effort it took to rein in his temper. Wren _sparked_ , like a fusebox about to blow. "For kripes sake, Ro, _think_. SOP. The first effing thing a government under attack does is call a state of emergency. That means roadblocks, patrols, _curfews_. We're in the middle of fekking nowhere; it's late as hell. You really think any civvies are out here right now?"

"According to our IDs, we're off-worldlers-"

"And that's supposed to convince an enemy patrol?" He was more than just angry now. The Force crackled under the weight of his _exasperation_. He'd expected…. _better_ of her. "If Grievous has taken over command here, than he's fekking smart enough to realize the Republic might have sent out reconnaissance to assess his strengths. He can't let word of his numbers leak out if he plans to surprise Krell." His voice dropped to a grating mutter; Ro shivered a little, his words sounded like broken glass ground over gravel. "Not to mention, mopping up any of the fekking cannon fodder the clankers missed the first go-around."

She thought of that; pictured herself as a trooper, lost and possibly wounded behind enemy lines, abandoned for all sense and purpose by the people you owed your very existence to - like a puppy that had gotten lost and was worth less than the trouble of retrieval.

 _But Krell'll be here in another rotation._ If there were abandoned troopers left on Garqi, then all they had to do was sit tight for another day and the raring cavalry would come torpedoing in.

Not that those troopers would be Krell's priority. Ro wasn't naive enough to believe the Republic would waste so much as a fatalistic shrug for any clone who'd failed to scramble when the evac order hit the exhaust fan. Jedi should know better - should _be_ better - but they were scrambling, too; much like those left-behind troopers. Ro had been to Yarille, had seen the pathetic little graves her fellow Altisians had carved out of the hard, frozen ground; one small, futile gesture to give the troopers in death a bit of the dignity they'd been denied in life, left behind and forgotten by the Republic after being chewed and spit out beyond repair by the war. Yeah, Ro knew how the Republic and many Jedi prioritized the clones. She knew a lot of things; far more, in fact, than what Wren was giving her credit for.

With her thoughts coming full-circle, Ro lifted one hand up to her face, studied the slim length of her fingers in the moonlight, then grabbed Wren by the ear and _twisted_.

" _Shit_."

He grabbed for her wrist and went into a roll, intent on yanking her down and breaking her hold.

Ro let herself be pulled, be rolled, ignoring the frantic yipping as Poorsa spilled from her pack and onto the ground; the pup wasted no time in scrambling out of range of the fight. Her gear pressed into her spine as Wren flipped her onto her back, but she brought her knee up and into his stomach before he could bring his full weight to bear.

Her kneecap sang as it impacted with the thin sheet of body armor surrounding his middle. Ro ignored the pain and bared her teeth in a smile, jabbing her knee up again and again. Through sheer force, Ro drove Wren into another roll, until _she_ was atop, straddling the furious trooper.

Panting slightly, Wren sneered up at her. "Are you finally out of your barvy-fekking-mind, _cheeka_?"

She was a little short of breath herself, and not just from the brief struggle. The Force pressed down on Ro like a hundred percent humidity; a distant promise of a break that could bring relief or total, maddening frustration.

She shook her head, angrily, to rid herself of the sensation, and glared down at her partner. _Supposed_ partner. "What am I?"

He blinked. It wasn't often that she caught Wren totally off-balance and by surprise anymore. In the three months since they'd partnered up, he'd learned to take the eccentric twists of her mind and roll with the craziness. But he was thoroughly stumped now.

"What?"

Ro wrenched her hands free from the death-lock he had them in, only to clap them over both his cheeks, forcing his eyes to meet hers. She bent down until the long braid of her hair slipped over one shoulder to snake across the ground by his ear and they were literally nose-to-nose. "Look at me; take a nice long gander. What do you see, Cookie? Some wee bit of a fem who can't tell her red alerts from her hot cherry lipgloss? Who'll squeak like a brush-mouse at the first looksee of incoming oh-fudge-they're-shooting-live blaster fire? Just little ol' Ro with not a nutterfluffer in her head for substance, thinking she's doing a whirl-foot tour of a vacation planet, 'stead of traipsing over territory with ' _We Shoot to Inconvenience_ ' signs every inch along the way? _I'm a Jedi_ ," she hissed and puff to whatever Sep might be listening. She shoved herself away from him, furiously wiping the sleeve of her tunic across her face, hoping the action and the darkness would hide the welling tears of frustration.

Wren hoisted himself into a sitting position, but made no move to get up himself. Swirls of red, peppery orange and lime green pressed against Ro's mind's eye, as his _irritation_ with her warred with a mounting _frustration_ and _bewilderment_. It only served to infuriate her further; he had no _idea_ what she was talking about. From beneath a mauve-colored bush, Poorsa watched them both, whining quietly, as if afraid too much noise would trigger an even greater explosion.

"I'm a Jedi," Ro repeated, more softly this time, but no less defiant. "I went undercover on _Rattatak_. Think that was just for creampuffs and giggles?"

" _Cheeka_ -"

She stomped her foot, hard enough to rattle the surrounding flora. Somewhere deeper in the jungle, a frog ribbited in protest. "I _don't_ need you lecturing me like a youngling running into a traffic lane without looking in both directions, Wren. I _know_ what the fudge I'm doing, despite what you and Zey and the Order and Chancellor-hopping-Palpatine may think and I could prove it, too, if you and all the aforementioned would just _trust me_. Poorsa, _k'maree_."

The strill dashed out from beneath its covering bush and obediently followed Ro as she stalked off, back towards the road.

Behind her, Wren swore and surged to his feet. "Ro, fekking wait." He made a grab for her elbow, but Ro twisted out from beneath his fingers, as light footed as a dancer. She was done with being grabbed for the night.

For a moment, it looked and felt as if Wren were going to lose it complete; his _anger_ gathered and darkened in the manner of massive stormclouds piling one atop the other, spitting lighting. It was intense enough that Ro could taste burnt ozone at the back of her throat. But at the last minute, he pulled back, literally and figuratively. Letting out a deep breath through his nose, Wren took a step back, putting some much needed distance between themselves.

"Where the fek do you think you're going, _cheeka_?" he asked, in a voice that creaked under the amount of restraint he was putting on himself.

Ro stood as tall as she could; mustering all the hauteur that she could, she gathered the emotion about her like a cloak and tilted her head just far enough to give give the impression of looking down her nose at Wren, despite the height difference. A useful pose Eda had taught her.

"To Pesktda, of course. And not on the power of my peddling footsies, either. There's folks be coming down the road, fast, meaning they're in a vehicle that can outpace a swamp snail, which I _sensed_ , on accounting me being a bona fidoed glowsaber-jockey, and with no droids scurrying the area - which I know on because I'm a glowing J-to-the-e-to-the-d-i - I'll be going to meet them good folks and seeing to ditching this hitch."

The more she talked, the more bewildered Wren seemed to grow, until the lightning that was his Force-aura was so green, it was like viewing the world through a shard of colored glass. " _You're_ going to?"

"That's right. Me. Myself. I, lonesome. Plus, Poorsa," she hastily amended. The pup perked up at the sound of its name, tail thumping happily against the ground. "I don't care what you do. Go back to the ship, help Artee make the repairs and blow up some clankers; that always seems to give you the thrills. _I'm_ going to finish the mission." She hiked up her pack and started walking again, Poorsa at her side, leaving him in the dust.

* * *

Wren watched her disappear into the jungle's overgrowth, slack-jawed.

He'd thought he'd gotten to know Ro over the past few months; thought he'd gotten the hang of predicting the unpredictable. But never in a million years would he have thought she'd just walk away from him like that.

The back of his hand trailed over one his cheeks; it was still hot, almost burning, from her earlier touch. As if, instead of holding him in place, she'd slapped him instead.

 _Jedi._ They were all kriffing insane.


	16. Close Encounter

**Author's Note:** Something truly amazing has happened. Our very own **laloga** has published her very first novel! These are exciting times and anyone who's read her stories will realise how simply amazeballs a full-length novel, featuring her incredible OCs, Kali and Stonewall, will be. For all of you, dear readers, still looking for that defining book of the summer, check out _**Catalyst Moon: Incursion**_ by **Lauren L. Garcia**. It's a must-read for any **laloga** fan and lover of fantasy, awesome characters and a plot that'll suck you right in and never let go. I'm serious peeps. Go, go now and read!

Keep Calm and Read On! impoeia.

* * *

 **Chapter Sixteen: Close Encounter**

 _"Even while they preach its unifying power, the Jedi insist on a rift within the Force. The truth, however, is that darkness and light exist far more closely to one another than the Jedi would ever admit. That truth would undermine all of their teachings - and that knowledge frightens them."_

\- Chancellor Palpatine, aka Darth Sidious

* * *

"I cannot _believe_ you just let me meander off like that."

Wren paused in the act of straightening his clothes after their tussle, rechecking all his hidden weapons, to look at her from beneath heavy, lowered brows. The scarred corner of his mouth twitched, and for the life of her, Ro couldn't tell if it was in amusement, anger or something else altogether. The Force didn't seem to know either; Wren's presence in that great pool of energy just kept rippling, shifting colors so fast she barely caught a glimpse of one before it was gone.

She could taste his _determination_ to _not_ let her get an accurate read off him like the sting of copper after licking a credit chip - or biting her own tongue. "Ro, you've been gone two fraggin' minutes."

A minute and forty-two seconds, actually. The first thirty seconds had passed before she'd realized he wasn't coming after her. In the next half-minute she'd concluded that, no, the buckethead _really wasn't_ going to come after her, followed by a stomping forty-two second backtrack walk, in which she'd fretted about how the iced _fudge_ she was going to get out of this one.

 _But who's counting, right?_

Arms akimbo, she did her best to stand tall and proud and _not_ like she was the one giving in after her dramatic exit, because no backsies, blank it.

"That's not the point." It was, really, but he could look down from his towering six-feet-impressive all he wanted; she had her pride, too, and that had been a good walkoff, she should win the solid gold Twi'lek for the way she _proudly_ stalked away from him.

Pride, however, should not get in the way of survival. She _could_ see this mission through on her own, totally solo and glamorous; she was sure of that. 'Kay, ninety-five percent sure, on accounting of Grievous cutting in on her dancefloor. Or….ninety-one percent? Well, she was def in the high eighties. Anymeans, boiling down to brevity was that she _could_ do a solo - maybe? - but didn't _want to_. She liked company and though he was the biggest grumpy butt this side of the Rishi Maze, Wren was the kind of date to drag to this sort of soirée - no matter who did the kicking and screaming.

So she took a deep breath of nightair, tasting the growing humidity, and repeated, "That's not the point," just so he knew where they stood.

Wren gave his clothes a final pat-down to make sure all of his weapons were where he'd hidden them, before mirroring her pose: arms crossed over his broad chest, legs slightly spread and balanced on the balls of his feet, ready for round two - or two-thousand-fifty- _emtix_ , but again...wasn't like anyone was keeping track.

"Then why don't you kriffing enlighten me," he drawled, "oh wise and independent _Jedi_?"

Her cheeks burned, bright enough, she was sure, to be seen all the way to Pesktda and General Grievous' private latrine. He just _had_ to use that tone with her, and _those_ words; echoing what she'd thrown at him back when they'd been trying to repair the _Mockingbird_. Except she'd said them in jest. There was no denying the mocking sarcasm oozing off of Wren now.

And just like that, Ro realized she didn't have a follow-up. _Monkey feathers_.

 _No. Nonononononono._ She _wasn't_ going to get her _choobies_ handed to her twice in the same night by a masc whom _she'd_ taught the game to.

Poorsa, finished with sniffing every plant in the immediate area, let out a sharp, impatient bark.

And Ro's brain shot back into action. "Point being," she told Wren, while jabbing a finger into his chest, "is that you _don't_ just let a fem of my precious persona walk out of your life, Cookie. That's basic womanology, right. There." She punctuated each word with another quick stab of her finger, effectively driving the much taller trooper back a step every time. "Sheesh, haven't you _ever_ seen the holovids? When we get back home, I'm ordering a chick-flick holovid-two-nighter-marathon and your attendance is required. This is _crucial_ Intel; for your survival only."

Wren stopped just before running his back into a tree, glaring at the thing as if it were solely to blame for his current predicament and he could ignite it through the sheer force of his displeasure. The tree, however, remained unscathed and Wren's _irritation_ \- as prickly as running your fingers over a curled-up Alderaanian hedgehog - remained unspent.

And maybe - maybe - that would have been the gong for another blow-by-blow - they were both so _tense_ , it hurt deep in every muscle fibre - if the wind hadn't shifted.

There it was, what Ro had sensed earlier, close enough now for the physical senses to pick up: the unmistakable high-pitched whine of repulsors.

She'd been expecting it, but the Force around Wren jerked sharply to one side, just as his head whipped towards the sound of the approaching speeder. Before she could protest, Wren grabbed Ro - _again!_ \- and pulled her roughly to his side, even as he went for his blaster.

The contact sent a jolt through the Jedi. Wren was a red-hot coil, a hunting akk poised, a finger curled around the trigger, all waiting for the push to spring, tear and burn.

She started to say his name, then cut herself off, too wrapped up in watching him. Wren's head was slightly cocked, chin down and eyes half-lidded as he listened to the distant repulsors. A slight frown pulled at the corners of his mouth and made a furrow in his brow, but his eyes gleamed like the Force around him: hard with _concentration_ and alight with _eagerness_.

This was Wren _the Soldier_. It wasn't a face she got to see often, unobstructed by his helmet, but he wore it well. Better than some of the others he'd tried on for previous missions.

"Not military," he muttered. "Civvies." A line in his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, though the hand on Ro's shoulder remained firm. There was a clank and clatter in the distance, as something that should have floated scraped its bottom over duracrete, and a single dark brow quirked upwards. "And fekking _old_. That's your AT, _cheeka_?"

"That's what I was trying to tell-" She stopped, mid-eyeroll. "Wait. My what?"

Brief _amusement_ , as he realized he'd one-upped her in their slang war, and quickly tucked away again - no doubt to be brought out for gloating later. His eyes darted back towards the treeline and the road; the Force shifted and resettled around him as Wren considered and discarded their options. Unexpectedly, a smile curled the edges of his mouth.

"Alternative transportation. As in, _'We came. We saw. We requisitioned without asking.'_ Guess you're up, _Commander_." He crouched, releasing Ro, only to pin Poorsa down before the strill could dash off towards the sound of the approaching speeder. When he spoke again, there was edged humor in his voice. "Procure us a ride."

For once, he had to look up to meet her gaze, but even hunkered down on his heels, Wren managed to look down his nose at her. Every line of his body screamed challenge, from the tilt of his head and his casual grip on her pet, to the unmistakable wariness in his eyes. He'd let her take lead, alright. But only to see if she could deliver what she promised.

 _Well_ , Ro rolled her shoulders and shot Wren a smile, teeth and all. _'Kay then._ Wren was getting his words served in a steaming humble pie and she'd pass him the frill syrup.

* * *

"Boss, see that?" Trigg jabbed his finger at the windshield, smearing more grease over the transparisteel pane.

Glover thought of giving the wipers another try, and decided he had his hands full just keeping the hovertruck over the road and off the duracrete. "I see," he said, though truthfully, all he could make out in the headlights' glare was a vaguely humanoid shadow, jumping and waving its arms frantically against the backdrop of the jungle crowding the road on both sides.

Glover considered himself a nice enough guy, friendly-inclined towards his fellow sentients, but he was seriously considering shifting the hovertruck into high gear and leaving the stranger in the dust. You just didn't vaping know who was prowling the planet these days.

"Maybe you should…" He trailed off, nodding towards the glove compartment at Trigg's knees, where he kept an ancient blaster from his grandfather's days - just in case.

But Trigg didn't catch the hint. He was, in fact, not listening to his boss at all. "Hey, it's a girl."

He sounded truly excited now. On the backseat, Karter and Deeb roused from their doze. "Did you say a _girl_?" Karter knuckled the sleep from his eyes and eagerly leaned forward, squinting through the windshield and crowding Glover in the process. "Where?"

Glover elbowed his farmhand back into his seat, but he saw now that Trigg was right. The ghostly shape outlined by the headlights was resolving itself into some definite feminine curves.

"The hell?" Glover did shift gears, but down, and the hovertruck obediently slowed - with many a hiss that almost sounded like sighs of relief from the anti-grav unit - until the vehicle trundled to a full stop.

Trigg hastily lowered the passenger-side window, just as their would-be hitchhiker materialized out of the glare of the headlights.

"Wowzer, thought for a moment for sure you'd be merrily motoring on. Stellar of you to stop."

Glover blinked; Trigg stared and somewhere in the back, either Karter or Deeb was making a choking sound deep in his throat. There was a slight breeze wafting through the open window that, at the start of their journey, had been heavy with the promise of a cold spring rain. Now, it smelled to Glover like ripe caf beans and….and he didn't know, but the air felt _warmer_ somehow, as if the sun had decided to start rising hours early.

It was her eyes you noticed first; Glover couldn't quite tell their color under the uncertain illumination of moon and headlights - maybe blue, maybe green-grey, maybe something in-between. But they were luminous and large beneath a wild tangle of pale blond bangs, and set in a face that was, by comparison, small, oval and delicately boned. In fact, small and delicate just about summed her up, from that button of a nose with its slightly upturned tip, to a body that didn't have to so much as bend, as almost stand on tip-toe to peer into the cab.

 _Small and delicate_ , Glover repeated to himself, _like a little bird_ , and wondered just who the milking blazes would let a bitty thing like her wander the countryside at this late hour? Forget the wildlife, there were two-legged predators who'd love to gobble up this pretty tidbit.

"Bit late to be traveling the roads, hon." Glover put a hand on the backrest and braced himself against the steering yoke, to better peer past Trigg and at the girl.

She blinked, before giving them all a dazzling smile and quiet laugh that warmed his insides and, judging by the slight flush creeping over his boys' faces - all of them experienced farmhands, toughened by weather and work - Glover wasn't the only one to feel it.

"Too right," she said. "And I'd love to be crashing somewhere with beds, baths and room service." She snapped her fingers - a gesture Glover found instantly endearing - as if only just now contemplating the possibility. "Could you kind sirs be giving me and my partner a ride to where we could hire all of the above?"

From the back, Deeb asked, slightly disappointed, "Partner?"

"Yeah." She turned her head slightly, beckoning to someone off the side of the road. For a moment, light from the cab hit her profile at a sharp angle, and Glover thought he saw bruises, like shadows, move beneath her skin. Surprise flickered over Trigg's face as well, but before the sensation could fully register, the girl shifted again and instead of her face, the light fell across the thick coils of her braid. Whereas the purple lines streaking her hair seemed to drink in the light, the rest - very blond, very pale - almost threw it back, giving the girl a fleeting, haloed appearance.

The " _partner_ " on the other hand, remained a sharp-angled shadow at the edge of the hovertruck's lights. Glover could just make out that he was Human - and big, both across the shoulders and in height. Glover thought, with healthy cynicism, that the darkness played a large part in that impression, but no denying that, keeping close to the treeline as he was, the partner more resembled one of them shadowy predators he'd been thinking of before. No honest man stayed back like that when asking for a favor, unless he had something to hide. Glover didn't like it, not one milking bit.

The Shadowman moved, and for one wild moment, Glover gripped the steering yoke hard enough to crack the ancient bantha leather, certain they'd get pounced in retaliation for his thoughts. Of their own accord, Glover's eyes tracked back to the glove compartment and the blaster hidden inside, just as the Shadowman's jacket flapped open in an errant breeze and the headlights glinted off of something dark and metallic at the stranger's waist.

 _Could be a belt buckle_ , Glover thought. _Could be a milking blaster_ , a darker, more panicked voice added.

By now, the tension in the cab had rocketed straight into the atmosphere; Glover, for one, felt cold with suspicion.

But the girl just kept smiling. Going so far as to reach through the window, she touched Trigg lightly on the shoulder, just enough to dimple his shirtsleeve. His farmhand startled, then settled back down in his seat; a foolish grin worked itself onto Trigg's face, matching the girl's.

"You boyos are just the most stellar, taking on two roamers like you do," she said, eyes moving about the cab to meet each of theirs. Glover felt a twitch go through his fingers when her gaze met and held his, like they were eager to reach for a proffered, sugared treat. "We don't have much, but figure we can offer some compensation-"

"Leave your creds. Ride's on us, hon." The words left Glover's mouth before he could think about them, but they felt right. The season'd been a good one, he didn't really need the extra creds, and besides, it just felt wrong taking money from a sweet little thing like her. Like filching a sparklemint stick out of a youngling's trove of candy. "Go ahead and stow yourself and your gear in the back; no room left in the cab, I'm afraid." He waved his hand, indicating the small space, crowded by four men and several packs. Not to mention they were all still dressed in their work clothes, dirty and sweaty from the last twenty-nine hours. Sweet girl like her would be more comfortable in the back, with the night reasonably humid and the air fresh.

The smile she bestowed upon him could have lit a black hole. Past her shoulder, Glover could see the partner already moving towards the back of the hovertruck; that same dark, panicky voice from before said he should be keeping an eye on that one, preferably with his blaster cocked and ready. But that voice was very distant now, like the vague feeling of disquiet you had after waking from a nightmare you couldn't remember. And it didn't matter now; whatever cautionary instincts remained were quickly dissipating under the pleasant warmth of the girl's smile. That warmth seemed to radiate from her, filling the cab and reminding Glover of pleasant summer days picnicking with his wife.

"My most many thanks. You're all real lifesavers." She blew a kiss into the cab and Glover, on the downslope of fifty, felt his face warm pleasantly.

"Nice girl," Karter muttered, when she was out of sight and presumably joining her partner at the back of the hovertruck.

"Mmhmm." Glover was only half-listening, keeping an eye on their hitchhikers via the rearview mirror. The moon was just bright enough to let him make out their silhouettes.

"Her momma must be worried sick, though." Trigg came from a big family - he knew all about being worried. "Sweet thing like her, out in the middle of the night with a big guy like that? _My_ momma would be goin' barvy just at the thought."

Glover had no daughters, just a niece, way out in the capital, but he was inclined to agree with Trigg.

The hovertruck dipped slightly as the girl and her partner climbed into the truck bed; a tap on the rear windshield let him know his passengers were settled.

Glover kicked the motor on, shifted gears and held onto the yoke for dear life as the ancient repulsors coughed to life and tried to ditch the hovertruck onto its side.

"Alright then, let's see if we can't get the little missy to where she's going."

"And in one piece," Deeb added under his breath, as Glover gave the accelerator another good tap and they heaved forward.

"Hey, man, if you don't like the 'truck," Karter sniped back good-naturedly, "you can always walk and the pretty girl can ride upfront with _us_."

* * *

The truck bed was hard, dusty and crammed with suspiciously odorous crates, not to mention the promise of a numb ass after too many hours of riding in it. All in all, Wren had traveled worse, though he could have done without the livestock.

Judging by the way the mesa goat kept eyeing them, it could have done without the addition of two Humans on the cramped truck bed as well. At least the wind from their passage subdued the stench radiating off of the creature. Golden horns gleaming in the moonlight, the mesa goat stretched its shaggy neck, taking a careful sniff of Wren's jacket. Wren pushed the animal away and resettled himself against the stack of crates, as far out of biting range as possible.

"Looks like I finally got your goat, Cookie."

At Wren's glare, Ro dissolved into a fit of giggles.

Barvy Jedi, but he had to admit, she'd come through on this one. The civvies had been so glamored, they hadn't even bothered to question why he and Ro had been out in the jungle in the middle of the night in the first place.

The mesa goat looked between them, then shook itself, as if to say, _Don't include me in this_ , and promptly turned its back on the two Humans.

Still laughing, Ro slid into a corner created by the stack of crates, tucking herself securely against him as the hovertruck bumped and scraped its way towards Pesktda. Wren instinctively tensed at the sudden contact, caught between his body's two primary responses to physical closeness: fight or fuck. He wanted neither from Ro, so he clenched his fists and forced himself to remain still until the urges passed.

"You're 'bout as comfy as lumpy duracrete oatmeal," Ro complained and proceeded to wiggle about in the cramped space until she was pressed against his side, back to the truck bed's frame and legs sprawled across his. He grit his teeth and concentrated on the terrain flying by as she hauled his arm across her shoulders like a blanket. The goat, no more amused by Ro's antics than Wren was, bleated a protest. At the sound, Poorsa whined from deep within the backpack Wren had stuffed the strill into and proceeded to claw its way out. Wren managed to save his pack from falling off a crate, but the strill tumbled out with a yelp to land squarely in his lap.

Wren rolled his eyes heavenwards. What the Nine fekking Hells had he done to deserve _this_?

"Cookie?"

" _What_?"

A moment of silence; he could feel her eyes boring into him. Then she asked, "Are we good?"

He was _not_ in the mood for this conversation. "According to the latest recruitment posters."

Deadpan obviously wasn't the answer she'd been hoping for; a rare scowl flitted over her face. "I meant _us_. As in, you and me and-"

Wren heaved a sigh and tried to shift to where she wasn't so….under his skin. " _Cheeka_ ," no names, not now; a quick glance at the rear windshield showed the clear outline of two of the men, close enough to overhear if they weren't careful, "I get your _family_ marches to the beat of a different fekking drum, but is _now_ really the time for getting into the emotional crap?"

She had the self-control to _not_ glance at the cab as well. Instead, she laid her head against his shoulder and lowered her voice to where it was barely audible above the decrepit whine of the hovertruck's repulsors and the offended bleating of the mesa goat.

"Pops and the family think we're small change. That doesn't bother you?"

He almost smiled at the nickname for Zey - " _Pops_ " had been one of Ro's more inspired ideas. "A lot of kriff bothers me, _cheeka_ , with you generally topping the list."

He felt her snort in amusement, her breath warm against his neck. In his lap, Poorsa had gone to sleep, curled against his thigh, with Ro absently scratching the strill's rump.

"But," he went on, "I won't live or die by what your _family_ or any other _relations_ effing think of me. There's enough out there trying to vaping kill me as is."

Another giggle, breathy and light, slipping over the bare skin of his throat and under the collar of his shirt. "Good point. And, Cookie?"

He groaned, head falling back against a crate. Would she _never_ shut up? "What?"

Her index finger drew an intricate pattern across the back of his hand before she said, "I'm sorry. About earlier, I mean. I shouldn't have just walked off like that, mad. We're partners and we're in this together."

Partners. He let the term sit in his mind while automatically scanning for possible snipers and waiting ambushes in the trees flashing by. The word tripped easily from Ro's tongue, but even after three months, Wren still had trouble quantifying just what it meant. It'd just been too long since he'd let anyone get that close.

In the wake of his silence, Ro started singing to herself, the words light vibrations against his shoulder and neck.

"I wanna talk sweet talk. Whisper things in your ear. I wanna tell ya the things, I know you've been longing to hear…"

Wren recognized the song as Ro's favorite - one of the few constants about the mercurial little nuisance. Including, he noted wryly, her inexplicable insistence of keeping him around, not as a subordinate, but an equal.

 _Barvy Jedi_.

And on that thought…. "I don't forget, _cheeka_ , what and who you are. Ever."

The singing stopped, as did the continuous, invisible loops and swirls on the back of his hand. She didn't meet his eyes, not this time, when she asked, quietly, "Is that a problem?"

Wren craned his neck to see past the hovertruck's cab. If he squinted, he could barely make out the distant glow of Pesktda through the thick jungle. He'd been honest with her so far - might as well continue the trend.

"I don't kriffing know."

* * *

 _Meanwhile…._

The last time Savage had ridden a speeder bike, it'd been as a passenger, and the controls on this model were mostly unfamiliar. Still, there were only so many ways to configure a control panel in a galaxy dominated by humanoids, so he managed, though the ride was going more slowly than suited the throbbing pulse in his temple.

According to CIS Intel, Tr'ansom had until 1800 hours to make his rendezvous point, or else risk being stranded. With dawn still hours away, that gave Savage more than enough time to cut the agent off, and retrieve him and the Waste.

But every delay burned through his esophagus with the persistence of a bad case of heartburn.

Pesktda was like a stonefall: fear and anger and trepidation were boulders crashing down upon him, until he wanted to break out in all directions and finish what plasma and lasers and soldiers couldn't.

He remembered - vaguely - under the press of green mist, a time when he'd stood in a river, cold water sloshing over his knees, spear in hand, waiting for the fish to accept his presence and lower their guard before striking. Once, he'd had the patience to wait hours, days, for a kill - however long it took. But not now. Racing through the night, past smoking craters that had been entire residential blocks, every passing minute was like a shard of glass slicing across his skin. It took nearly all of his concentration to keep the tattered remains of his patience from becoming tinder for the growing fire deep in his belly. He nearly ran over a droid patrol - more than once.

Lest he vault from the speeder bike to slaughter the sniveling vermin hiding in their cellars, he gunned the engines until the wind screamed in his ears and roared his fury to the waning moon.

Deep in his mind, the green mist thickened and pulsed, while the dark side pressed itself against his skin, slick and cloying; the two were like twin walls, with him in the middle, slowly suffocating.

Savage couldn't breathe again until the city was well behind him. With only Garqi's purple jungle surrounding him, some of the burning eased and he could, finally, loosen his death grip around the bike's clutch. Cutting down trees and turning plants to cinders simply did not hold the same thrall as doing the same to flesh and bone.

As he sped through the jungle, time lost all meaning.

It was happening more often lately; his body went on autopilot and his mind… It wasn't quite like meditating. More like, the green mist rising from between the cracks in his mind seemed to absorb his conscious self, subsuming his will and controlling his body, much as he operated the speeder bike. In this state, he almost felt like he was back on Dathomir, standing in that long-ago river; almost at peace.

A flash of light sparked at the edge of his vision, flaring beneath the edges of the green mist's curtain.

Savage yanked the speeder bike's controls with such violence that the bike fishtailed. Dirt and sparks sprayed up into the air as his armored boot came down hard on the duracrete road. The bike tilted dangerously onto its side, forcing the Zabrak to brace himself or topple off.

Lights flashed again, but twin lights this time. A shrill honk cut through the night, as loud and wailing as a complaining old woman, followed by the screech of repulsors seconds away from blowing a compressor coil. The bleatings of a panicked animal emanated from the truck bed.

The hovertruck swerved, dipped partially off the road and still almost swiped Savage with a side-mirror.

"Blasted kriffing _dwarfnut_!" A middle-aged Human stuck his head out the driver's window, shaking his fist. "Watch the kriff whe- _fek_!"

The Human's anger turned rancid with fear - thick, yellow waves, as nauseating as they were sweet - as Savage surged from the speeder bike, limbs twitching, as if under electricity. The lightsaber was once more in his hand without a conscious thought, its weight the only source of coolness in the burning heat suffusing his veins. He'd cut into this fool - and the other three he sensed within the cab - again and again, into their smallest components - _finally_. Like the moon to the tide, the thought of imminent violence called to his blood; made it _surge_.

"Uh, sorry, sorry." The old man's eyes had grown progressively larger, the closer Savage had moved into the radius of the headlights. Now they were approaching the size of dinner plates, and there was frantic movement in the cab itself. "I, uh, I meant the other- another _dwarfnut_ , pal- I-I mean, _sir_. Fek."

"Just _drive already_!" came a panicked voice from inside the cab. " _Before_ the big fekker decides-"

The rest of the words were lost in a rush of realization and screaming repulsors.

 _Another_. Light. _Light_ , not light _s_.

What had driven him off the road in the first place hadn't been the approaching hovertruck's headlights; hadn't, in fact, been anything he'd perceived with his _physical_ senses. It'd been the light side of the Force. And he'd tasted that particular presence - small, laughing, ephemeral - before.

He whipped about and lunged, just as the hovertruck dipped and swerved, its undercarriage scraping past in a shower of sparks. A mesa goat stared back at him from the truck's bed and between piles of crates, bleating in terror and…..And there was _something_ beneath that terror - Human and animal alike; a primal part of his being longed for warm blood against his tongue - but the hazy traces of light shredded beneath his probing mind.

Savage attempted to recapture the stinking trail of the light side - He had _not_ imagined it! - but like the hovertruck, the sensation was quickly fading into the thick darkness of the night.

His fingers curled around the lightsaber, power gathering in his palm, ready to spring and tear and snap. _Vermin._

The green mist expanded, pulsed. Savage gasped and staggered back, his hands flying to his suddenly pounding skull and almost dropping the 'saber in the process.

 _No time_ , the mist whispered, in the voice of obsession and ice-blue eyes. _You have a task_. Another pulse; another wave of pain. _Finish it._

The pounding of his blood in his ears dimmed to a distant thrum, as more and more of the mist filtered through his mind, until his vision was filled with green, instead of purples and shadows.

Then he was back on the speeder bike, hands around the controls, without quite remembering how he'd gotten there. Count Dooku's disapproving face had now joined the mist's commanding voice and the compulsion to move was _strong_. Still, Savage took one last look around, at the towering trees, whispering grasses and gathering clouds.

But there was no light.

* * *

 _Later….._

Golden, multi-voiced and fluent; the Force was a song. Ro didn't dare break through its surface until the very last vestiges of discordance had been drowned out by the harmonies. Even then, she waited.

By the time Ro slipped out of the trance, the hovertruck was well underway again and Pesktda was a distinct cluster of lights in the distance. Her insides were frozen. Ro took a huge, gulping breath of air, hoping the growing humidity would help thaw her out, but got a mouthful of dust instead. She started coughing, cheek banging against the truck bed's floor.

Above her, Wren's voice came out hoarse, groggy and pissed off. "Shit, _cheeka_. A little warning next time before you pull…" he tripped, almost saying the forbidden word, " _your_ crap."

She didn't answer, just curled in tighter on herself. In her arms, Poorsa began to whine and wiggle feebly. _Close. Too, too mono close._

She'd only had a split second's warning before a wall of green _darkness_ had crashed down on her. It'd been worse than back on the ship, with bulkheads and the void of space to cushion the impact. Here, all she could do was grab Wren by the shirt and yank him down - both physically and metaphysically, as she'd plunged them both into the safe anonymity of the Force-trance. She could only pray that she hadn't been too late.

But they were both still breathing, all body parts attached and the poisonous darkness that had nearly stopped her heart was dwindling fast. It it hadn't been for the lingering taste of bile coating her tongue, Ro would have wondered if she hadn't imagined the whole thing.

" _Cheeka_?" Blunt fingers touched her cheek, pushing aside strands of hair come loose from her braid in order to expose her face. The contact brought flavors of _worry_ , laced with the lightning-like jolts of _irritation_ : Wren, peeved that her silence had actually irked out some measure of concern from him.

And that was…..Well. Wasn't that _something_?

Nice, right? It was nice that he cared, even if it was an angry caring, it was better than nothing and kinda reassuring considering the fights they'd had in the last six hours and the more she thought about it, the more she realized that, no, it wasn't actually nice, it was kinda scary, because why the ringa-linging tiddlywinks was Cookie being all aggressive-nice when she'd just saved his shakin' tailfeathers - again!

No longer cold with fear, but hot and bothered and ready to do some frying about it, Ro snapped her eyes open to give Wren what-to-through-five…...and the ice shot back into her veins when all she saw was blackness.

Ro gulped down air, ready to scream or cry or beg, when a calloused hand clamped over her mouth. Poorsa yipped in surprise, then protest, as her grip on its small body tightened convulsively.

"Kripes," Wren spat. Ro felt him shift and suddenly there was light again: the stars and the moon and the yellow-orange glare from the hovertruck's interior lumes. She craned her head about and realized….

 _Oh._

They'd all been sprawled one over the other before, but her hasty maneuver had thrown them into a tight ball of bodies. Ro was curled on her side, knees almost tucked beneath her chin, while Poorsa was half-buried beneath her, pressed so tightly against her chest that she could feel the strill's heartbeat hammer in synch with her own. Wren had landed atop of them both. His legs tangled with Ro's, he was semi-prone, chest pressed against her back, but hands braced on either side of her head, to better frown down at her. He was a towering bulwark in their little niche amongst the crates, and Ro desperately wanted to pull him back down, feel his reassuring weight and wrap his indomitable Force-presence around her like a security blanket.

Somehow, she didn't think he'd appreciate the gesture. The thought called a ghost of a smile to her face.

Wren's eyes flicked from her face, to the rear windshield of the cab, then back the way they'd come - where they'd left the darkness behind.

"Care to explain what the kriffing fek that was about?"

"It was him," Ro mumbled. She was suddenly exhausted, but too keyed up to actually close her eyes. Instead, she buried her face in Poorsa's bristly fur. The strill twisted about until it could run its tongue over the shell of her ear.

"Him, who?" Wren sounded exasperated now, and the Force crackled in response. "Palps? Grievous? Dooku on a flying fekking popsicle?"

"Him from before we landed," Ro answered. "From the….the black nerf side of my family."

She didn't dare say more, but Wren seemed to catch the drift. His Force-presence relaxed, then deepened in timbre as he turned thoughtful.

"What the fek's he doing driving into the middle of fraggin' nowhere?"

Ro didn't answer; it hadn't sounded like the question was directed at her, anyways. It was a good question, though, but one she didn't want to think about.

A shudder worked its way through her body, as she remembered that second brush of awareness from the dark side Force-sensitive. Like dipping her fingers into an acid cloud, he _burned_.

There was something else. Something _behind_ the burning that was big and scary and... _bad_ , just plain bad in a manner she hadn't thought existed since she'd been a youngling at the Temple, begging Garett to check for monsters under her bed.

But there was no big brother with her this time, to chase away the scary.

Despite the warmth of the night, Ro shivered and curled herself further against Wren, keeping Poorsa close as the hovertruck swayed and jostled itself towards Pesktda - far away from the monster.

Whoever he was, Ro hoped to all the stars and supernovas she wouldn't cross paths with him again. She didn't think she'd come away with just scorched fingers if she did.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Ro's favorite song - and a personal favorite of yours truly - is, _Under the Moon of Love_ by Showaddywaddy.


	17. Entrance Exam

**Chapter Seventeen: Entrance Exam**

 _"There's three things you should never believe - weather forecasts, the canteen menu, and Intel."_

\- RC-1309 ("Niner")

* * *

 _Later…._

Dawn broke grey and overcast. By the time they were an hour from Pesktda, it had begun to rain.

Glover stared out the windshield, watching the wipers smear the dust and rain across the transparisteel. In the passenger seat, Trigg kept drumming his fingers against his knees, the rhythm speeding up even as the hovertruck was forced to slow, as if his tapping could make up for the time they were losing.

Traffic into the capitol had rarely been this thick. Civilian traffic had been restricted to the ground roads, while the skylanes were choked with military vessels and the occasional rescue or emergency transport. Droids were everywhere: in the skies, on the roads and standing guard at the few entrance points into the city that hadn't been blocked off.

Glover hadn't wanted to believe the Holonet reports and gossips, but this close, evidence of the assault was cruelly vivid and, like the droids, just about everywhere he looked. Almost three days later and parts of the city were still burning, heavy columns of smoke twisting into the rain.

"Shit." Deeb stared at the approaching city, disbelief and anger warring on his tanned face.

 _Sounds about right._ No wonder the call had gone out to outlying farms - before the news embargo - for foodstuffs, blankets, clothes and whatever could be spared. First time ever in his memory the capitol was worse off than the dirt-grubbers out country.

Next to Deeb, Karter shifted deeper into his seat. "Wonder how many made it out?"

They all glanced at the rad-transceiver in the dash, but there'd been nothing but static on all frequencies. Rumor had it Pesktda's broadcasting station had fallen during the assault; the rest had fallen under the CIS' communications blackout. Glover didn't know what to think about that last part. In a situation like this, he'd rather have too much information than too little. Rumors were unreliable.

Not that the people in charge ever considered the needs of those down below. Like having a clear comm-channel to check on relatives in the city. He wondered how his niece, Nan, had fared? Had there been fighting on her block? Was she hurt? Dead?

Trigg touched his arm. "Boss."

At their rear, a harvester crawler honked its impressive horn, and everyone in the cab jumped in their seats.

"Kripes." While he'd been lost in thought, the line of landspeeders had inched forward. Glover hastily closed in, before the chuff-sucker in the harvester had a meltdown. He supposed it could be considered reassuring that even in a crisis, people could still be total barves.

"Looks like they're scanning everyone going in and out," Trigg said.

Karter snorted. "What're they expecting to find?"

Whatever it was, it seemed to require some very big guns. Milling around Pesktda's main city gate were a good dozen battle droids - the tanned, spindly kind the CIS never seemed to run out of - along with half a dozen bigger, spider-like droids, sporting cannons where Humanoid sentients might have noses. And above it all were more cannons, mounted atop hoverplatforms and operated by actual flesh-and-blood soldiers from Garqi's small military contingent.

"Don't know." Deeb was still staring, but this time at all the guns closing in on them, and there was a trace of hunger in his deep-set eyes. "Spies. Terrorists. Leftover wet droids. Don't think it really matters. All that'll be left is molten slag once they find it, though."

At that, Glover started shifting uncomfortably in his seat, eyes tracking again and again to the rearview mirror and its limited view of the truck bed. _Spies, terrorists and leftover wet droids. Right._

He didn't think the girl was trouble - sweet little thing like her, _nah_ \- but since their near-miss with that _dwarfnut_ on the speeder bike, an uncomfortable tension had started churning in his stomach. She was alright, nothing to get more grey hairs overs, it was just….it had only occurred to him 'bout an hour ago that he didn't even know her name. Hadn't _asked_ for it, as a matter of fact; hadn't asked for anything, nor any of his boys and that was just plain strange. Because maybe Glover wasn't the smartest wet on Garqi, but he sure as blue blazes knew better than to trust some random person who flagged him down in the middle of the night.

But he'd done just that, hadn't he? Never even batted an eye. Neither had his boys.

The hovertruck vibrated, rattling his teeth and rippling the cold caf in the holder at his knees. Glover pumped the stabilizers, but the rattling just got worse.

"Fardling old piece of sh-"

"Ain't the 'truck, Boss," Karter said. He sounded awed. "Kripes."

Glover swung his head around, just as the first of the tanks cleared a rise and started flattening the neat rows of caf beans the city council had planted for the benefit of the tourists. First two, then eight, then sixteen of the monsters were bulldozing their way around Pesktda, bypassing the waiting landspeeder traffic by simply ignoring the roads and rolling over everything else in their way. One passed close enough that Glover could count the rivets in the head of the battle droid poking out of the top hatch. By the time the tanks had passed and taken up station around the city wall, everything not on the road or too slow to get out of the way had been crushed, leaving Pesktda stranded in a sea of open space and Glover's palms so sweaty, they slid straight off the steering yoke.

"Looks like they're prepping for a war," Trigg said.

Behind them, the harvester crawler started tooting his horn again - the line had moved up a spot.

Deeb snorted. "We already at war, genius."

"But that's out there." Trigg made a vague hand motion towards the overcast sky and the distant Outer Rim Sieges that didn't seem so distant anymore. "Not…. _here_. That stuff's all about Coruscant and what they're doing in the Core. Got nothing to do with us."

"Didn't stop the bootstraps from sending their wet droids," Karter growled. "War's got plenty to do with us now. And I don't know 'bout you, but I ain't staying on the sidelines. After what they did to Pesktda, I'm signing up for the army and gonna make those clones sorry for messing with the real Humans."

Glover hit the brakes as the blasted idiot in front of him choked off his speeder. "You disappear on me in the middle of the growing season, Karter, and you can forget ever finding a job as planter on this rock again. Got me?"

Trigg turned wide eyes on him - he was just getting this. "You think the Republic's coming back to Garqi, Boss? That why they're gearing up the big guns? 'Cause they think there's gonna be another battle?"

 _Spies. Terrorists. Leftover wet droids._ Why couldn't he get Deeb's little mantra out of his head? And why did it seem like the cab was colder now? Had been nice and warm when they'd picked up the girl, if memory served. He fiddled with the buttons for the heater until a blast of warm air hit his palms, but the heat didn't feel the same.

They were sixth in line for scanning when Glover said, "Deeb, make yourself useful and tell our passengers we're here. Think they fell asleep somewhere down the road."

Passengers. Odd; he hadn't even thought of the girl's partner, aside from those first few twinges of misgivings. Just her.

Grumbling, Deeb twisted around in his seat until he could slide the rear window back and stick his head through. "Eh, Boss?" Raindrops rolled down the edges of Deeb's curls, as the farmhand turned to look at Glover. "They ain't there."

" _What_? What do you mean, they're not there?"

Deeb sounded as confused as Glover felt and just as suddenly anxious. "Nothing there but the crates and the goat."

"How's that possible?" Karter demanded and jostled Deeb aside, to get a look himself. "We didn't stop, not once."

"Except for when that _dwarfnut_ almost ran us off the road," Deeb put in.

"They were still there after that," Karter insisted. "I know; I _checked_."

"Musta jumped off sometime later, then," Trigg suggested hesitantly.

Glover and Deeb exchanged a look through the rearview mirror, probably thinking the same thing: _Why?_

 _Taptap_.

Everyone in the cab jumped, guiltily, like younglings caught smuggling their first bottles of fozbeer past curfew.

A battle droid, one of the spindly ones, with yellow piping running along its tan body, was standing by the driver's side window, its three-fingered hand against the transparisteel. It cocked its head at them, the gesture oddly bird-like, and tapped the window again, reminding Glover of his wife's tooka cat scratching on the screen door. Rain rolled down its long face, to drip off the blunt-ended nose like snot.

Glover hastily rolled the window down. "What's going-"

"Security check," the droid cut him off. "For your safety. Please hand over your ID chips, remain in your vehicle and keep all external appendages within sight."

Trigg started rummaging in the glove compartment for their IDs and Glover had one heart-stopping moment when his ancient blaster threatened to fall out, where the droid couldn't help but notice. But Trigg quickly shoved the old blaster into the farthest corner of the compartment, wordlessly handing Glover the ID chips, who in turn handed them to the droid.

"Processing." Their IDs disappeared into a handheld reader. "Your vessel will be scanned for any unauthorized chemical compounds, explosives, weaponry, mechanical components, foodstuffs and lifeforms."

Six more droids materialized out of the rain: four like the spindly, yellow-marked one and two of the floating variety that were little more than balls on repulsors, with thin little appendages sticking out at impossible angles. The four battle droids took up station around the hovertruck, blasters tucked against their chests, while the floating balls zoomed over the vehicle. Lights flickered at the end of several of their appendages, as the ball droids activated some sort of scanners.

Tanned durasteel fingers thrust themselves through the window and under Glover's nose and he barely caught the ID chips before they could scatter under his seat.

"Do you have anything to declare?" the droid demanded.

Glover swallowed once, but stared straight ahead as he answered, "No, nothing to declare. Nothing at all." He paused, thought hard, then added, "Except for the goat."

* * *

 _Meanwhile…._

 _Ro and Wren, sittin' in a tree._

Literally, except, there was no k-i-s-s-i-n-g, just a lot of r-a-i-n-i-n-g. Still rhymed, though.

"Rather be making out in a limo-speeder with minibar, anyways," Ro muttered, as the broken taillights of the hovertruck disappeared inside Pesktda's town walls.

"Mind always on what matters, eh, _cheeka_?"

She lowered her electrobinoculars to pull a face at Wren. He'd chosen a branch slightly above hers for a perch, forcing Ro to crane her neck about more than usual just to look at him, which itched the Corellian wine-bees out of her. Probably did it just for that reason, the jerk.

"Considering who showed off his chubby cheeks to half the brass on Nerrif station, I'd watch the tone, Cookie."

Wren's lips curled into a smile, but unlike Ro, he kept his electrobinoculars glued to his face and his attention on the city spread out below them. "Thought you said my cheeks were worth showing off? Fek it. They've got a second tank company coming in." He pushed a button atop the 'binocs, and the device began to whir softly as it recorded.

Wars were won or lost as much on information as ammunition and troop strength. In that regard, she and Wren had hit the solid platinum Hutt-load; latest Intel had put Sep strength in this system at about a third of what was actually coming in. Krell was going to need that Intel if he was to stand a snowflake's chance on Tatooine to actually win Garqi.

Question was, how was Ro going to get all this information back to Artee, to be relayed to Coruscant? She had a few bright thinks on that subject, but for any of them to work, she needed access to something bigger than her comlink.

The whine of sublights drew her attention back to the skies. Ro fumbled to get her 'binocs back up - her fingers were slick with rain. Through the enhanced viewer, Ro made out two more troop transports cutting through the designated skylanes and heading for Pesktda's spaceport. She tried to recall how many droids a single transport vessel could carry - _Lots, I think._ \- when movement in the fields surrounding Pesktda distracted her.

"Why're they doing that?" she asked. The second tank company that Wren had noted was taking up position on the northeast side of Pesktda, opposite the road she and Wren had come in on. One of the tanks swung its turret to smash against a tree, bringing the whole thing down with a crash. Birds screamed in alarm, their shrill cries mixing with the hum of repulsors and the steady pounding of droid feet.

"Karking clankers are setting up an effing kill zone," Wren explained. "Easier to spot an approaching enemy when there's no fraggin' cover."

"But why keep the tanks outside the city proper? Shouldn't they be guarding key positions inside Pesktda?" That was where the bulk of military tech they'd seen come in thus far seemed to be heading. Instead, the tanks were aligning themselves into a loose circle around the city wall, much like Grievous' fleet had encased Garqi.

"AATs aren't light assault crafts, _cheeka_. They don't do tight turns and urban warfare just means giving some fekked tubespawn the opportunity to drop an EMP or thermal det down the main turrets or pilot hatch - _if_ the tubespawn doesn't mind getting blown to _frag_ in the process." A different kind of smile slid across his face, one touched with bitter, sardonic humor. "And you know how the cannon fodder _loves_ to volunteer, _cheeka_."

She didn't have an answer for that. Wren didn't require one.

"No, they'll use the tanks to box in the city and target the enemy over the city walls - turn all of Pesktda into a _crinking_ free-for-all once the fighting starts."

Poorsa kicked against Ro's back; the strill had been shoved into her backpack before they'd abandoned the hovertruck, and wasn't too happy about the continued confinement. Ro shifted, trying to accommodate the strill and her own behind on the branch, chewing on her bottom lip as she worked through the scenario Wren had sketched out and hitting one big snag.

"But….there're still civvies in the city."

"There's always fraggin' civvies," Wren shot back.

She looked up at him, then, feeling naïve and stupid for asking, but unable to stop. "They'd bombard their own people?"

"Can't let the Republic have all the fun." But he sounded too distracted for the sarcasm to hit true, and when he did lower his electrobinoculars, Wren was frowning.

Ro could tell it wasn't over the idea of civilian casualties; the eddies of _disapproval_ , _concern_ and _anger_ were cool with rational distance. Wren was a sarcastic, jaded pragmatist, but he wasn't quite _that_ cold; he didn't enjoy seeing people get hurt who couldn't fight back, even if they were, technically, the enemy. He was preoccupied with something else.

"Did Pops, or the manifest, mention how many birds the Besalisk trader was bringing in?" he finally asked.

Ro's shoulders jerked a little in surprise at being addressed, a smile flashing across her face. Wren had gone over the contents of Maze's datacard, and with his near-perfect recall, didn't have to ask about mission specific details. For him to ask _her_ , to include her in his thought-process….it left a pleasant tingle in her belly.

"I…" She had to think about it for a second - and while she was at it, she needed to come up with a better nickname than "Besalisk trader" for Krell. Speaking in code was fun and all, but no need to get lazy on the creative thinks. "No, I don't think so." In fact, aside from Krell's estimated time of arrival, they didn't really have anything in the form of Intel on his planned assault.

Wren grunted, absently tapping his 'binocs against the tree trunk and shaking loose a small torrent of gathered rainwater. Ro pulled the hood of her poncho down deeper, letting him think.

When Poorsa began to whine and struggle against the confines of her backpack, Ro did some acrobatic maneuvering, holding the pup on her lap instead. Poorsa took one look at the nine meter drop and decided curling up as tight as possible, while Ro stroked the short bristles of its fur, was infinitely preferable.

Finally, Wren said, "The Besalisk's likely coming with a standard load. With the fekking cyborg in the air, he'll run out of birds before he hits atmo, never mind meeting demand on the ground. What's his ETA?"

Ro checked the chrono on her wrist-comm. "'Bout twenty-five hours, give or take."

"Fierfek." He pinched the bridge of his nose, _aggravation_ spiking his Force-presence. "How's Artee doing with the comms?"

"Working on it. Whole planet's under no-talksies, not to mention half the ship's comm systems are fried, so it's gonna take mono tickies." She fiddled with her holo-locket's frayed silk ribbon, deep in thought, then suddenly turned her attention on Wren. Ro eyed him carefully, from the tips of his soaked boots, to the shallow cut beneath his right eye. "Are you feeling 'kay?"

"Aside from this effing annoying whine coming from beneath and to my right? Yeah. Why?" he asked suspiciously.

"You've been really chatty last ten minutes. And digging the partner thing. Are you, really you, or an alternate clone pod version of you? 'Cause if so, I wanna preorder another before the powercells run out."

"Hil-fekking-arious, _cheeka_." He gave the electrobinoculars an impatient swipe, before stowing them in his backpack. "Thought you wanted to be treated like a kriffing Jedi?"

Ro cocked her head to the side, not quite sure what that had to do with the price of loop pastries on Chandrila.

Wren gave her one of those looks she'd seen from time to time on other troopers, the kind that said she should really know this, he'd expected her to know this, and she was an idiot for not knowing.

Oh, goody. Their non-verbal communication skills were on the improv, too.

Wren heaved a long-suffering sigh, but Ro didn't sense so much _annoyance_ , as _amusement_ , from him. "Never mind, _cheeka_. Let's go; we're on a tight schedule."

Getting down from the tree in the rain - without breaking bones, or being spotted - was a lot less easier than it sounded. Poorsa wasn't happy about having to go back into Ro's pack; the species database claimed that strills could glide by extending their limbs and stretching the folds of loose skin, but that wasn't a theory Ro was willing to try out any time soon.

They hit the ground soon as their toes touched dirt. _Wet_ dirt. Ro tried not to sigh as mud squelched beneath her weight. _Cover before laundry bills_ , she reminded herself and wriggled deeper into a lushly purple fern-like thing that smelled vaguely of mint.

They'd abandoned the hovertruck on a rise conveniently overlooking the city, just before it had joined the long line of waiting speeders. Wren had taken one good gander at the squads of droids and other security and practically kicked Ro off the truck bed, back into the jungle and up a tree for a more thorough recce.

And she was just _splitting_ at the seams with all the _why's_ she'd been holding in, since then. Only the acknowledgement that she couldn't just go about demanding trust and respect, then turn on her heels and question his every move had restrained her.

Perhaps Wren sensed her growing restlessness, or perhaps he knew her well enough by now to detect the first signs she was about to combust with curiosity. Either way, his eyes briefly cut in her direction, before focusing back on the shifting lines of droids. The scarred corner of his mouth twitched; _annoyance_ \- not necessarily directed at her, but also not _not_ for her - tempered by _amusement_ flowed off of him in carefully controlled ripples.

"Fraggin' ask, _cheeka_ , before you bite your vaping tongue off."

He'd barely finished speaking, before the words practically tumbled out of Ro's mouth. "Why'd we do a jump the motor? We so mono could've snuck a sneak past the tinnie brigade, since our IDs come cross-over as legit, as they are true-baby-blue, and those farmers would've sworn us to being _bombad_ syrup-sweet with a whammy from little ol' me, it'd given even the tinnies a toothache-" She abruptly clamped her mouth shut - and almost _did_ bite her tongue off - as the first sparks of _anger_ threaded their way through his Force-aura.

Well, he _had_ told her to ask. But maybe she could have found a less combative phrasing - unintentional as it had been. _Damage control_. "I mean, you know, not to criticize or whatstuff, but just to be pointing out, mayhaps for next time-"

"No."

"'Kay." Ro tried to blow the bangs out of her eyes, but they were plastered to her skin with the damp, so she just pushed them behind her ears as much as she could.

Wren wasn't even looking at her, but frowning down at the city, eyes cold and burning and so _focused_ , like a medical examiner taking apart a corpse, one organ at a time, to determine cause of death.

Shiv had told her once that she... _changed_ , when she accessed the Force; she stopped being _Ro_ , and became a _Jedi_. She'd never quite understood that, until she'd seen the clones in action for the first time; how they just stopped being men who played sabacc and told off-color jokes in their spare time, and turned into _soldiers_.

That was what she saw on Wren's face now, and in every line of his body: violence, barely leashed, but with a purpose. Even down on one knee, in the mud, and without his armor, he was imposing.

 _He's been trained to take down cities_ , she thought. _This is his battleground. Where exactly does that leave me?_

She reached into her pack and freed Poorsa, bringing the strill up to her chest in a comforting hug.

"It's not because of you."

Jerked from her thoughts, Ro looked at Wren, who was furiously tugging at one of his sleeves. He met her gaze for a split second, then turned away, ostensibly to follow the line of a descending troop transport - that made three.

"It's me," he said.

Ro blinked. "Ain't that generally the fem's line? Wait. Are you breaking up with me? Is this a prelude to the ' _Let's just be friends_ ' speech? I didn't even know we were _more_ than friends."

"For kripes sake." He flicked two fingers against her forehead. Hard.

"Ow." Her hands flew to the offended spot, effectively dropping Poorsa into the mud. The strill squeaked in surprise, then in happy discovery as it promptly started rolling in the mud.

"Stop watching fekking Republic Medcenter, _cheeka_. That kriff is rotting what few effing brains you've got left."

"Oh, and I suppose shock boxing on the viewscreen is just health fodder for the gray matter?" she returned archly.

They stared each other down for a second...then both began to snicker at the ridiculousness of arguing over favorite holo-programs while an army was massing at their feet.

"Kriffing forget it, _cheeka_." Wren ran a hand over his brutally short-cut hair, dislodging rainwater in small rivulets. The Force echoed his grimace as the water trickled beneath his shirt collar and down his back. But a small twist of amusement stayed on his lips. "Put what you've got left of those barvy-effing-brains to use and find us a _crinking_ way into the city."

Ro plucked at some purple grass. Alrighty-'kay, so it was nice of him to include her in the planning, but…. "Shouldn't that be your think-job, seeing as you terminated Plan A?"

Wren grabbed for Poorsa, just as the strill lunged for a low-hanging leaf, fluttering in the wind. He shoved the pup back at Ro, before it could do more than whine in protest. "Plan A was to land at the spaceport, _cheeka_ , and fekking Grievous slagged that one. So, no." He arched a dark eyebrow at her in challenge. "What, all out of _thinks_?"

She whipped her head around for a sharp retort...and caught something shiny at the edge of her vision and through the thin sheet of rain.

"Weeeell," she drawled, and a wicked grin lit her face. "There's one," she continued in a sing-song, "but you're not gonna like it."

* * *

 _Later…._

She'd been right on the credit. "I don't fekking like it."

The pipe stuck out from a gently rolling slope, like the tail end of a womp rat, half into its burrow. A thin trickle of brackish water spilled from a moss-encrusted lip and into the small stream Wren was currently crouching in. Once, there might even have been fish in the water. Now, the worst of Wren's worries was slipping on the oily rocks lining the streambed.

Ro hunkered next to Wren, careful to keep the strill out of the water. The pup was the picture of abject misery: tail drooping under the rain, grey fur caked with mud and not allowed the freedom to get a second coating.

"Looks like an overflow pipe," Ro hazarded, "for when the sewers get flooded."

Wren took a look around the lush jungle, tried to imagine raw sewage spilling across the twining tree roots, and shook his head. Civilization.

He tore at the weeds surrounding the pipe's opening, exposing a sodden pile of trash pressed against an ancient grate. Wren wound his fingers through the grate's slits, testing its hold, and came back with a hand covered in rust and slime. He wiped his hand on his trousers with a grimace. Whatever the officials on Garqi were spending their tax payers' money on, it wasn't sewer maintenance.

"Sewers," he growled in disgust. "Why does it feel like every fekking mission with you sooner or later ends up in the sewers?"

"Dunno." Ro wiped a droplet of rain from her nose, before brightening. "Uhh, mayhaps it's like one of them convenient plot devices. Just like in the holozines."

"This isn't one of your half-credit holodramas, _cheeka_. It's fekking real life." He rapped his knuckles against the grating, shaking loose a blob of something brown and viscous. "And it's about to get kriffing filthy."

Poorsa shook itself in Ro's arms, splattering more water all over Ro's face. The Jedi promptly shook herself and the strill yipped in protest at being splattered in turn. She grinned down at the pup and gave it a quick rub between the ears. "So up the rating to R," she said to him, without looking up. "'Tis this, Cookie, or an intense game of Cosmic Chance with the Seppie army." Nevertheless, her nose wrinkled as the wind whistled through the grating and brought with it a good whiff of what awaited them on the other side. "'Course, I was kinda hoping for a tibanna gas line myself."

Which smelled _and_ was highly explosive. Yeah, he'd rather take the sewers.

Wren gave the grate another cursory inspection, then slipped his dead blade from its hidden sheath at the small of his back and set to work loosening the bolts. Ro's lightsabers would have been faster, but they left marks far too easily identifiable. And as far as they knew, neither Grievous in his floating fortress or the Sep commander on the ground had any idea a Jedi and clone trooper had infiltrated their lines. And, itching for a fight or not, Wren would like to keep it that way. He wasn't quite bored - or suicidal - enough to challenge the entire droid army with nothing but the little nuisance and her pet slobber-monster as backup. If he'd been alone, like any true ARC….

Slender hands, holding an equally slender blade, busily set themselves to work on the bolts next to his own. Wren glanced to the side in time to meet Ro's cheek-splitting grin.

He could ' _if_ ' himself to bloody death. Fact was, he wasn't alone. Not anymore.

It took them more than fifteen minutes to work the rusted bolts free and once he'd heaved the grate to one side, Wren knelt in the stream, shining his glowrod into the opening.

Fek it.

Ro'd be fine crawling through on all fours, but it would be a tight fit for him, especially across the shoulders - almost impossible, if he'd been in armor. He fekking hated tight spaces - didn't know of a single clone who didn't - and found his mouth had gone dry at the very idea of worming his way through that pipe for who-knew-how-kriffing-long.

"Maybe…" Ro was fiddling with the black silk cord of her holo-locket again - it had started to fray from constant, similar handling. "Maybe we could try scaling the city wall instead?"

Wren looked at her in surprise; not for the suggestion, which was ridiculous, but for the sudden quiver in her voice. She was pale, wide-eyed and scared, he realized with a start. Scared, the way she hadn't been when facing near-certain destruction at the hands of a Sep flotilla, because the inside of the pipe they were about to crawl through was pitch-black.

Fear didn't suit her.

"I'll take lead." He shoved the glowrod into the clip on his bracer, to illuminate the way ahead, and was in the pipe before she could think to argue.

It _was_ a tight fit. It was also uncomfortably hot, humid and rank inside the overflow pipe.

Wren was careful to let his head hang forward and keep his eyes on the floor, otherwise the mounting pressure on the back of his neck would have made him dizzy enough to throw up. He'd learned that from hard experience.

He also desperately wanted to be back in his kit. Never kriffing mind the confines of the place, at least with his armor on, he wouldn't feel raw sewage seeping into his trousers and flowing between his fingers. This was going to be one of those missions that ended with him hitting the showers for a solid hour or more, water just shy of scalding.

He refrained from looking back when Ro floundered in the shallow water and began to gag.

"Just keep the fek going."

"Speak-easy...for you," she gasped.

It was. Even with his touch of claustrophobia - _Thanks fekking much, Jango._ \- this didn't even approach the benchmark of his own, personal horrors.

Experience counted for a lot; it offered a protective shell, as hard as any Katarn armor, that insulated you against the horrors war had to offer.

There were days when Wren didn't know whether to envy or pity Ro, for meeting the galaxy bare-faced, without the benefit of such mental armor.

Right now, though, listening to her struggle, he tended more toward the latter.

Something small, furry and _alive_ , shot between his legs and over his hands. He had the thing by the throat before his brain had time to consciously register more than a shadowy outline.

Water splashed, a high-pitched yip echoed off the pipe's walls and Wren found golden eyes staring up at him, their centers tinted red by the reflective light, and fangs half-sunk into the fleshy webbing between his thumb and forefinger.

"Fierfek."

"What?" Ro sounded on the verge of panic. "Cookie, what's-"

He shook his hand violently, forcefully dislodging the strill. Poorsa whacked him in the face with its long tail, but he kept his grip on its neck. "Your thrice-fekked pet, that's what."

Ignoring Ro's protest, Wren brought the strill up to his face. He snarled at it, the way he'd seen Shiv snarl at street thugs who'd mistaken the old wolf as an easy mark: all teeth and throaty growl from deep within his ribcage. "Effing try that again, fluffball, and I'll chuck you to whatever swims down here. Copy?"

The tail disappeared, clamped between its hindmost quarters; the strill whimpered, shook itself once, then tried to run a shaky tongue over the tip of Wren's nose. Wren shoved the strill over one shoulder, back at Ro.

"Stay with _her_ ," he snapped.

As he continued, he heard Ro tell Poorsa in a half-whisper, "Told you so. Bad thingies happen to wee flufflies that bite."

* * *

It was difficult to keep track of time in that darkness, but eventually, the overflow pipe terminated in the main sewer system. By then, Wren's back was threatening to cramp, and he no longer cared about the muck soaking through his clothes; all he wanted was to stand and stretch.

Carefully, he worked his way out of the pipe, gripping the edges and letting his feet slide down first, testing the surface below. The rain had caused the water levels to rise, making it impossible to tell what might be lurking beneath.

"Cookie?"

"Sense anything close by I need to discourage with extreme prejudice?" He never had been able to verify if those stories about giant dianoga in the sewers really were just that - stories - or something more. He'd rather not do so now.

He felt Ro edging closer, until her breath fanned over his neck, cooling the prickles of sweat gathered there. Poorsa squirmed just beneath his elbow.

"Nothing nasty-crawly down yonder. But up beyond….We gotta's be right below city proper, Cookie. I'm transceiving mono peoples-vibes."

"At least we're heading in the right _crinking_ direction." His HUD's integrated mapping system, compass and access to planetary databases would have been nice, but Ro did almost as well. Still, it annoyed him, having his reliance on his bucket rubbed in his face. Maybe Shiv could come up with an alternate device - the old tinkerer would love the challenge, if nothing else.

The main sewer line was big enough to drive a speeder through. Wren landed in a river of sewage that went up to his knees and arched his back until the vertebrae cracked. Ro landed behind him with a barely suppressed sound of disgust.

"Pays to be such a fraggin' smallfry, eh, _cheeka_?"

She looked up at him, cheeks puffed out, as offended looking in the combined light of their glowrods as a Nelvaan squirrel with its nuts stolen. "Don't call me ' _smallfry_ ,' Cookie. I'm not small. I'm….I'm….I'm _fun-sized_."

He laughed.

It never ceased to amaze him. Here they were, in the dark, in the stink, knee-deep in filth below a city chock-full with battle droids, and despite it all, this barvy little nuisance of a Jedi had him laughing as raucously as if he were in a cantina on Coruscant.

"You...you kill me, _cheeka_ ," he gasped.

Ro hefted Poorsa into her arms from where the strill stood, poised at the lip of the overflow pipe and staring down into the rush of thick, brown water. She balanced the strill on one hip, before turning an arch eyebrow and impish grin on Wren.

"Better me than the Seppies, Cookie. Least with yours truly, it'll be a laugh-tastic 'till endex."

There were worse ways to go.


	18. Follow My Crumbs

**Author's Note** : A POV we haven't seen in a while, but Ramjet and his boys were quite adamant about getting some face-time. I couldn't leave them in the sewers forever, after all.

* * *

 **Chapter Eighteen: Follow My Crumbs**

 _"The military has to do this nobody-gets-left-behind thing because it's part of holding a team together. But us, sweetheart - we work alone. And one day, maybe we'll need to leave you behind. Be sure you can handle that."_

\- Republic Intelligence recruiter, name withheld for security reasons

* * *

 _Pesktda_

Ro started chattering almost as soon as they got moving: a long and meandering lecture on the migration habits of Grimwaldi sponges.

Wren just let the noise wash over him, the way he would the constant stream of Intel scrolling down his HUD. Paying attention, while not paying attention, and giving the occasional grunt whenever Ro paused long enough to draw in air. It was all the encouragement she needed to keep talking, without running the risk of incurring her ire over his not listening.

Which was probably why Wren hadn't immediately realized she'd asked a question.

"What?" he snapped.

Ro blinked owlishly into the glare of his glowrod, as Wren turned to look back at her. Hoisted up on the Jedi's hip - and kept from drowning in the sewer muck by a firm arm - Poorsa's eyes went red and luminous in the sudden illumination.

"How's this your-" she began to repeat, then stopped and sighed. "You weren't eavesing on a single said of my words, were you, Cookie?"

" _Cheeka_ , the moment effing _sea sponges_ become relevant to my fekking life, is when I drop to my knees before Grievous and suck laser." He started walking again, determinately taking point, but by the splashing of water behind him, and the protesting yips of the strill, he could tell Ro was struggling to strike even with him.

She started talking again even before she appeared by his elbow. " _Grimwaldi_ sponges are an important part of the ecosystem, as well as a relevant source of protein for a hundred-seventy-three species, sentient and non-sentient, on top of being stellar oracles for mono galactic events and you're not even trying to listen to this, you stoppered well of dried-up ignoramus; I hope a sea sponge slithers up your-"

"Weren't you asking me something?"

Ro blew out a breath, hacked a cough and inefficiently swiped at her soaked bangs, as if trying to brush away the bad air and his continued disinterest in porous aquatic organisms. The fumes down here were starting to get to her.

"My tongue tastes like it ran over a Wookiee-furball hungover from a quadruple shot of Rancor's Breath in a literal hole-in-the-wall cantina on Nar Shaddaa on a bad braze day with carpeting that smells of poor bowel control."

"Impressively specific," he drawled. "Been working on that one for long?"

"How's this your fault?"

He stared at her blankly. "Fek should I know? I always figured your Force rattled the kriff out of what little brains-"

"About us being _here_ ," she interrupted and abruptly stopped. Poorsa glanced up at her, whining inquisitively, tail thumping against Ro's thighs. "You said it wasn't me, but you, that we were slogging through the muck-muck. So how comes? Think the tinnies finally figured what handsome flesh is beneath the bucket?"

Fierfek, he'd dared think she'd forgotten about his earlier admission. He should have known Ro would clomp onto any piece of Intel he dropped, no matter how insignificant.

He shone the glowrod down the tunnel, making a show of inspecting their surroundings and hating himself for not sneering in her face and telling her to fek off. _Wouldn't do any effing good, anyway. She's like a fekking tooka cat with a ball of yarn._ Except, even in his own mind that didn't sound very convincing.

"First off, the sewers weren't my bright idea, but fekking yours, _cheeka_."

He purposefully chose to chalk up the smirk flashing across Ro's face as a trick of their crisscrossing light beams.

"Subtle change of topic, Cookie. How long've you been working on that one? And secondly?"

She looked so ridiculously eager, waiting for him to share the sworn secrets of clonehood.

When had he gotten so kriffed?

"Security force was scanning every vehicle, _cheeka_. Forget face recognition; they'd have picked up my ID code."

By the blank look on her face, he might as well have told her the clankers would have picked up on his cloaked second head. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad, afterall.

He gave a mental snort over the notion. His luck had never been that good.

"The long-necks slap an identifying code onto the wrist of every clone, _cheeka_. A barcode," he hastily clarified, before she could do more than open her mouth to ask the inevitable questions. It was always better to cut Ro off before she could even get started. "Tattooed on the inside of a clone's wrist; scan it, and my military record - my _life_ \- is on display for the whole fekking Sep army to read." Never mind the first third of his life on record was pure fiction.

She blinked, fast and hard, then asked, "Barcode?" like she'd never heard the word before in her life.

He snorted at the look on her face, all bewilderment and wide-eyed dumbfoundedness. "Fierfek, didn't you read _any_ of the vaping manuals, _cheeka_?"

" _Branding you_ like a freshly snipped spigage on sale is _in the manuals_?"

This was the first time he'd seen her react in a similar fashion to her fellow Altisians when confronted with the basic facts of clone life. He said, "You're sputtering." It was actually pretty fekking entertaining to watch.

"Well, pardon my Gungan, but I wasn't prepared for the mono spoiler alert on finding out my partner and favorite slice of Banja cake shared a similar taste in unasked for body art. What was that?"

Having long since mastered the art of walking and arguing, they'd kept moving through the sewers at a steady pace. Now, though, Ro suddenly whipped back around, splashing filthy water up to her poncho and nearly dropping a protesting Poorsa.

Wren had the DL-18 out and aimed before she'd finished the question. "Kriffing _what_?" he hissed, when all he saw were shadows and sewage.

"I…" Ro's eyes flicked from side to side, before she closed them firmly and, despite the stench, took a few deep breaths. The familiar tingle of warmth started up in his fingers almost immediately, and with another curse, Wren widened the gap between himself and the Jedi, blaster pistol still at the ready. Poorsa let out a hoarse bark, as if trying out the sound, and it echoed in the sudden silence that had befallen them.

"Someone came this way," Ro said slowly, a slight furrow appearing between her brows as she concentrated. "Four…someones?" she added hesitantly, before suddenly shaking her head so hard, the ends of her unraveling braid slapped her in the face. "Five," she corrected. "Five someones and one of 'em's hurt."

Wren let out a breath, did another quick visual sweep of their surroundings, then holstered the blaster. "Can you tell who the sewer rats were?" She could do that sometimes, tell the species from whatever signals her radar picked up from the Force.

Ro was already humming softly to herself; a tell, he'd learned, that meant she was concentrating extra hard, like how some troopers rocked back on their heels when filtering through the wealth of information passing over their HUDs.

While Ro did her Jedi-thing, Wren inspected their surroundings more closely. Four, possibly five, people passing through would leave a trail, no matter how careful.

Using Ro as his center mark, Wren began searching the tunnel in an ever increasing circle, until he found what he'd been looking: blood, just two meters further down and around a shallow bend in the tunnel.

It wasn't much: a smear of browning crimson over the slime, that looked like a careless attempt at a paint job, it was about level with Wren's stomach.

 _Gut shot_ , he thought, or something equally painful. The smear was thicker on one end, so whoever had passed by had been pressing his hand against the wound before being obliged to steady himself against the wall.

There was splashing behind him, accompanied by a few short yips, then a hand settled on the small of his back. Questing fingers trailed up his spine, as if asking him to spare a minute to acknowledge the person behind the touch.

Wren shrugged the fingers off, but turned to look at Ro, whose attention was riveted on the blood.

"Let me guess. Troopers."

She managed a fleeting smile. "That's my smartest cookie. How'd you guesstimate?"

"Who else would be the eff down here?"

"Well," and she poked him playfully in the ribs, "there's us."

"Exactly." He flicked her ear and pointed the glowrod back down the tunnel, squinting as he thought. "They must have missed the fekking evac; used the sewers to get out of Pesktda and out from under the clankers' noses." He let out a snort. "Who'd have thought five tubespawn had that much brains between them."

Ro cast him a jaundiced look for his comment, and repositioned a by now bored Poorsa on her other hip, before saying, "'Kay, backburning the unwarranted vitriolic for later referencing. One wrong on the credit, though, Cookie. Only four of our passing five were plastoid brothers and one of 'em's in lotta ouchies." She jerked her head at the blood. "I woulda picked up on them sooner, 'cepting there's a city of unhappies overhead flooding my emo-radar with dark clouds." She rubbed one hand over her left temple, like she was staving off a headache.

Wren just grunted at the correction. Four or five, what the fek difference did that make? "So who was the fifth?"

She didn't answer immediately, and when the silence only stretched, Wren finally shifted his whole attention onto the little Jedi.

Ro was worried. She was biting her bottom lip, rolling it between her teeth, while fiddling with the frayed cord of her holo-locket.

" _Cheeka_?" Wren'd rarely seen her like this and it generally didn't bode well for either of them.

"I….I don't know," she finally admitted. She bundled Poorsa against her chest, giving the pup a tight squeeze. Poorsa whined, but almost immediately began licking at her hands and wrists. "I can't tell. It's like…" she frowned over the right words, "...like trying to catch a glimpse of the bottom of a frozen pond. It's cold and slippery and I _know_ something's beneath the surface, but all I get is my own reflection."

Wren wasn't sure what all that was supposed to mean, but "cold" rang a definite bell. "Sounds an awful kriffing lot like Eod Metesk." They'd caught the insane serial killer on Gaftikar, during their first mission together, and Wren remembered Ro using similar terminology to describe the barve's signature in the Force.

"Yeah," Ro said slowly. Then, in the same tone, added, "And no. Metesk was a psychopath and crazy as a Vjun fox doing the tango on a hotplate. This is more like _controlled_ , the way Maze keeps control over his feelings." She rubbed Poorsa's scalp, earning an appreciative sigh from the pup, before asking, "Think those troopers took a prisoner?"

"No." Wren was decisive on that. "They're behind enemy lines, on the run, and they've already got one man down. A prisoner would just slow them down further; it's a liability they can't vaping afford."

"But they met someone down here," Ro insisted. "Someone they didn't expect; I can tell that much. And they left together, thataway." She unwound one arm long enough from the tangle of Poorsa's six legs to point back in the direction they'd come from.

Wren considered the Intel, trying to put the pieces together, and frowning over the blank spots - there was too fraggin' much of the latter on this mission already.

Ro tugging insistently on the sleeve of his jacket distracted him from his brooding.

"Cookie, that one trooper, he's hurt. Like, mono bad pain vibes radiating all around. Mayhaps we should-"

"Ain't our concern, _cheeka_."

"But, Cookie…" She clearly didn't like his answer; he could tell she was building up some major gripe.

" _Cheeka_ ," he put in, forcing as much steel behind the words as he could, "no."

"But-"

"No." He grabbed her by the elbow, ignoring the strill's tongue lashing out at his fingers, and pulled Ro away from the blood and the evidence of whatever poor cannon fodder managed to sneak through the slaughter. "Our mission is to get _inside_ the kriffing Sep city, not chase after five barves running into the jungle with their tails between their legs."

"At least four of them are our guys and they need hel-"

He stopped and tugged her forward until they were facing each other and he could grab her shoulders and give her a shake. "You want your stanging family to respect you?" he snapped. "Then mind on the effing mission, _cheeka_. And injured or not, _they're_ not a part of it."

She searched his face for a long, long moment and maybe, if she'd used the Force as well, he might have lashed out with more than shakes and words. But it was only her eyes trying to pick him apart, and eventually, Ro dropped her chin; her shoulders sagged a little beneath his gloved hands and Wren knew he'd won this fight.

He tried to ignore the little voice at the back of his mind, telling him it didn't feel half as good as he'd supposed it would.

"'Kay," Ro mumbled, "I copy. Mind in the game and head off the platter." Poorsa twisted in her arms until the strill could run its tongue over her chin, and Ro buried her nose in the loose folds of the animal's fur. Wren supposed that, given their present surroundings, even the strill's stink could be comforting in comparison.

They started walking again, and when Ro added a softly defiant, "But I don't mono _like it_ ," they both pretended it was just the water rushing passing by their knees.

And when they found a ladder leading up to the surface, its steps dotted with flakes of bloods just beginning to turn sticky in the humid air, they kept moving without another word.

* * *

 _Vlassy Nature Preserve_

Ramjet stood beneath an air shaft, tasked with pumping fresh air into the pipelines and preventing a lethal buildup of methane gas, craning his head back as far as it would go to catch a glimpse of the outside world. It had taken their motley crew the remainder of the day, all of Garqi's night, and another good chunk of the following day, to make it this far. Eight-hundred klicks was a fair distance to travel when you were sleep-deprived, hungry, tense and wounded. None of them were at their best any more, but Ramjet was particularly worried - and trying not to show it - about Tryout.

Check still made the occasional soothing noises, but Tryout had stopped responding completely to his brother more than five hours ago. They'd taken turns supporting the injured trooper, trying to ease as much of his discomfort as they could, but it was still taking all of Tryout's energy and concentration just to keep going. They'd gotten lucky, in a way. The sewage pipelines had at least provided them with a relatively safe and direct route to their destination. But, the rising water levels were becoming a problem; they'd started out wading through sewage barely over their ankles and were no almost thigh-deep in _poodoo_.

Ramjet wasn't a particularly ironic man, but this was too much for even him to fail to notice.

"We clear, Sarge?" Slag asked, pulling Ramjet out of his ruminations.

His neck was stiff. Fardles, how long had he been staring up that shaft?

It was raining topside; fat, grey drops collected in the corners of the grate sealing off the airshaft, to run down the plascrete in rivulets, only to be flung far and wide again by the fan rotors bisecting the shaft halfway up. In the green of his nightvision, the rain looked like shooting stars.

"I can't tell."

Ramjet wiped away the water that had collected on his bucket before rolling his neck, trying to ease the muscles. He might as well have tried to soften the durasteel of his Deece with nothing but his warm breath. He desperately wanted to pull off his bucket and dunk his head beneath some cool water, just to feel the jolt and get a sense of being clean again. After more than a day of slugging through sewage, Ramjet couldn't even remember what 'clean' felt like.

"Sensors aren't picking up anything," he said.

"They haven't picked up a fardling thing since the assault went buckets up," Check muttered sullenly.

Tr'ansom added, "The jamming does appear quite thorough." He sounded so nonchalant about it; as if he were commenting on a gust of wind that had ruffled his fur at an inopportune moments, instead of the cutting of a vital lifeline.

Out of habit, Ramjet kept cycling through the Republic channels in hopes of gleaning some tidbit about reinforcements or other survivors, but so far, his efforts were rewarded with nothing but static.

 _'Dead air,' the civvies call it. Seems like dead's all we're getting as of late._

They'd avoided the droids in Pesktda, but it was best to assume the worst. Frankly, at this point, Ramjet wouldn't be surprised to find an entire vaping battalion of SBDs waiting for them to climb out of the shaft. So far, the clones' luck had been just one step sweeter than the sewage creeping through the gaps in his armor.

"If you would allow me, Sergeant." Water splashed as Agent Tr'ansom slipped from beneath Tryout's arm to come to stand at Ramjet's side. Wordlessly, Slag wound his arm around Tryout's waist in Tr'ansom's place, supporting the injured trooper between himself and Check.

When Ramjet shifted to the side to give the agent some more room, his boot sank into something soft. The sensation was enough to send a shudder racing up and down his spine. He decided, then and there, that if they did make it off Garqi, he was chucking his kit down the incinerator and putting in a request for a new one. Didn't matter how often he scrubbed his armor, Ramjet didn't think he'd ever get the smell of the sewers out again.

Oblivious to Ramjet's rising disgust, Tr'ansom turned his long-nosed face up into the rain spatter. Water began pearling in the Bothan's whiskers, flattening out what fur peeked out from beneath his grey coveralls, but the agent didn't seem to notice that, either. Being barefaced and without armor, perhaps Tr'ansom was just grateful for any sort of shower, even as flimsy a one as this. Frankly, Ramjet didn't understand how Tr'ansom could stand the stench. The clones' buckets had air scrubbers, and Ramjet had still been gagging a time or three during their trek.

Agent Tr'ansom cocked his head, ears swiveling up.

Ramjet wondered if the Bothan actually _could_ hear what was going on topside, past the threading _whrump-whrump-whrump_ of the fan, as the rotors cut through the air.

Obviously, the fan was meant as a means of dissipating methane gas and the breeze generated was enough to ripple surface of the sludge they were standing in. But all they did for Ramjet was present another obstacle, and cause an answering thrum at the back of his skull he just knew was going to blow into a ronto-sized headache if he wasn't getting out of these vaping sewers in the next five effing minutes-

Tr'ansom gave an abrupt nod. "We seem to be alone. Sergeant." He inclined his head towards Ramjet. "If you and your men would care to proceed."

It sounded like a request, but Ramjet could hear the underlying command. And he didn't like it. They might have been six men short of a squad, but Ramjet was still the sergeant, still in charge. Tr'ansom had no rank aside from "agent" to call his own.

And maybe he would have hurled all of this at the Bothan, except his irritation was swimming upstream of his fatigue, and Slag was just that second faster than he was.

"How're we supposed to get past those rotors?" The muzzle of Slag's Deece jerked up to indicate their currently biggest obstacle to freedom: rotors the length of Ramjet's arm, going at the speed of an engine turbine. "I don't fancy coming this far just to get sliced into nerf bacon."

"That would be unfortunate," Tr'ansom agreed amiably. Ramjet had to say this about the Bothan, he never lost his cool. Even getting tackled by two troopers in the pitch dark of the sewers, his composure had remained intact. Ramjet was beginning to think the man would do no more than yawn if stabbed in the groin.

"EMPs would take care of that, no problem," Check offered. The man had to be completely exhausted, operating on autopilot alone; it was the only explanation Ramjet could find for such a boneheaded comment.

Slag was obviously of a mind with his sergeant. "Great suggestion, Check," he said. "Shame we _don't have_ any EMPs."

They'd had, though. But what extra ammunition hadn't been lost during the comm building's collapse, had been used during their retreat to the RV-point, and later, at their aborted flight-attempt at the spaceport.

"Perhaps I can be of service." Tr'ansom slipped one hand into the folds of his coverall. When he pulled it back out, a small orb, roughly the size of a greenputt ball, was gripped between the furred fingers.

Check visibly perked up for the first time since the spaceport. Even Tryout managed to stir slightly, slung between his brothers.

"Is that a…"

"Miniaturized electromagnetic pulse device," Tr'ansom confirmed. "I believe you men call it a-"

"-a droid-popper dink," Check finished for him; he sounded excited, if not downright gleeful.

"Yes." A smile passed over the Bothan's face, as fleeting as a daywing; there and gone again in the gloom. "How quaint. But I believe it will do the job." He rolled the little ball between his fingers, before sending it flying with a casual flick of his wrist.

"Cover," Ramjet ordered. As one, the troopers turned their backs on the shaft, eyes closed and heads tucked into the crooks of their elbows. Check turned with Tryout in his arms, the injured trooper's faceplate pressed against the curve of his brother's neck.

The pop of electricity exploding sent every hair on Ramjet's body upright. But just before bright stars started dancing behind his closed lids, he thought he saw light of a different kind ripple across Agent Tr'ansom's eyes in a pattern eerily similar as to when he changed view-settings on his HUD.

 _Eyes are starting to play tricks on me_ , he thought, giving his head a firm shake to clear it, and hopefully his vision. It was an oddly comforting thought; put him in mind of some of the training exercises he'd completed back on Kamino as a cadet.

He blinked back tears, and moved back to the shaft with his squad to assess the damage.

"Droid-popper dink," Slag said into the ensuing, appreciative silence. "They pack a fek-load of punch."

"Yeah," Ramjet agreed. _Would've been nice to have some of that extra punch during the vaping insert_ , he added silently. But troopers never got the best toys. That was commando and ARC territory; the prima donnas of the GAR needed the extra flash for their egos. Still….

"You're just full of surprises, Agent," Ramjet observed, not quite charitably.

"I try." The agent gave a perfunctory shrug, as if he didn't care to commit even to a simple gesture. "Operating alone, it pays to be prepared."

Ramjet bristled. Was that criticism beneath the polite tone?

Slag's hand on his shoulder kept whatever hasty remark had come to mind firmly behind his teeth, but Ramjet's sudden irritation wasn't as easy to banish.

 _Take a deep breath and get a vaping grip on yourself. We're all on the same side_ , he reminded himself. For the sake of his men, Ramjet needed to keep it together, at least until they were topside and under some adequate shelter. Then he could maybe catch an hour's worth of shuteye and the glass would be half-full again.

With visions of sheltering caves and cushioning leaves for a bed firmly in mind, Ramjet managed a semi-courteous, "Copy that," in response, before signaling to the rest of his men.

They gathered under the steady sheets of rain now falling over and past the silent fan rotors. Sewer water sloshed around their knees, leaving a brown, oily film on their boots, greaves and poleyns. Even those five steps left Tryout panting through his mic.

Ramjet cast him a worried, furtive glance. Tr'ansom had a medpac, but Ramjet was starting to wonder if that would be enough. They might be able to stem the bleeding for now, make Tryout more comfortable, but what the private really needed was a fully-staffed medcenter and bacta tank. If they didn't get off Garqi soon….

 _One step at a time._

Ramjet looked about the small circle of his men, trying not to miss those he'd lost. "Alright, here's the plan. I'll go first. Slag, wait for the all-clear, then follow. Tryout's next, then Check and Agent Tr'ansom last. Clear?"

His troopers gave a crisp nod in reply, even Tryout, Agent Tr'ansom just a few seconds behind them. That kind of surprised Ramjet. He'd heard all sorts of stories about Rep Intel and none of them had included a willingness to work with, let alone follow, clone troopers.

It served to mollify him somewhat, though. Perhaps after all this was over, he'd invite the agent to a drink in the petty officer's mess.

"Good, and while I'm up there, I want you all to keep your kriffing mouths shut and the chatter at nil. Sound travels oddly down here." Holstering his Deece, Ramjet stepped through the curtain of rainwater and beneath the air shaft itself. Rungs had been bolted to one side of the shaft, within easy gripping distance of someone standing below in the tunnel - no doubt meant for the maintenance personnel.

Ramjet grasped one such rung and gave it a sharp tug. The bolts rattled in their fastenings, but the rung held.

"If you fall, Sarge," Slag called cheerfully from the darkness of the pipe, "at least it'll be a soft landing."

"Yeah, and you get to clean my kit afterwards," Ramjet growled back. The next rung shed flakes of rust against his glove, but it, too, held.

Ramjet took a breath, ignored the twinge in his ribs, and hauled himself up into the shaft, slipping his right foot onto the first rung while reaching for the next. The rungs groaned and creaked in protest of his weight.

The shaft was at least five meters deep. Halfway up, he hit the fan.

Its rotors were still spinning slowly from their leftover torque, sending a light spray of raindrops scattering in all directions, before falling halfheartedly to the sewers below. Ramjet craned his neck to watch, gauging the rotors' movements, before reaching out to catch one with his left hand. The durasteel was surprisingly warm and the edge of the rotor bit into his glove.

 _Slag was right for once. This thing would have cut us to nerf bacon._

Squeezing through the space between rotors proved a challenge. It was too narrow for his shoulders, so Ramjet had to relinquish half his hold on the rungs and push through sideways. The rain just made everything slippery. And still, the sharp edges of the rotor blades scraped against the plastoid, taking chips out of his armor.

Ramjet took a moment to balance unsteadily atop the fan, telling himself it was to take stock of his surroundings, rather than the need to catch his breath. Once his ribs had quieted from a shriek to a moan, he carefully scooted back to the plascrete walls and started in again on the primitive ladder.

By the time he actually reached the grate covering the opening of the air shaft, Ramjet's arms had begun to tremble.

The grate was metal, no doubt some security measure to keep passing civvies from falling headfirst down the shaft and into the sewers. But like everything else down here, age and neglect had taken their toll. There were large swathes of rust spread across the grate, and Ramjet felt a moment's ridiculous relief for his night vision-settings, for the rain was nothing more than emerald shards, darkening as they dropped onto the grate and slid back out, and not colored the brownish-red of rust - or old blood.

 _Keep it together, trooper_ , he told himself. _You can think about that when you're_ shabla _dead._

Ramjet slipped one arm through the topmost rung, and gave the grate an experimental shake with the other. The bars snapped off in his palm, bits of ancient durasteel raining down into the shaft below, dinging sharply as they hit the fan on the way.

"Sarge," Slag called up in alarm. "Everything alright up there?"

Ramjet grit his teeth. Hadn't he ordered a gag on chatter? "Yes," he hissed back, trying to keep the volume to a minimum. _Now shut the fek up before you call every clanker in the vicinity down on us._

There must have been enough venom in his short reply, because Slag didn't ask for a sitrep. Or maybe Check had administered one of those educational head slaps.

Small mercies.

Ramjet resettled his grip on the rung, took a breath and slammed his armored elbow into the grate. A third exploded in a shower of rust and brittle steel. Ramjet snaked his free hand through, found the nearest mooring and janked. Hard.

The moorings had withstood the elements better than the rest of the grate. They groaned and bent under his efforts, but didn't break.

One blast of plasma would take care of the entire fardling thing. But Ramjet didn't dare use his blaster now - not with these echoes. He shifted a little on the rungs, letting more of his weight fall onto the moorings. Grunting from the effort, he pulled a second time. Then a third. And a fourth.

The mooring gave with a sudden snap and at the worst moment, just when Ramjet was adjusting his feet on the rungs.

His legs went out from under him as his boots slipped from the wet, wet rungs.

For a moment, Ramjet hung, one-handed and suspended, from the top rung and it was like the whole world had decided to pause on the inhale all at once. Even the rain washing over his armor in little _plink-plink-plinks_ couldn't drown out the beating of his heart, so incongruously steady in contrast to his own, gasping breaths.

Then the bolts of the rung tore free in a burst of plascrete and realspace snapped back on the exhale of Ramjet's shout of surprise and dismay. _Osik._

The sergeant plunged down, back into the darkness and onto the silent rotor blades, along with the rain.


	19. On the Other Side

**Author's Note:** Alrighty-kay. It's been awhile since I last updated. Let's just say this chapter was almost my reason for giving up on the entire story. But the bolo ball's back to rollin', so here's a quick 'watcha-been-reading' summation of this story, thus far. (And yes, I really do talk like that. My folks aren't sure whether to up or down my meds.)

Previously, on _Mockingbird: Wastelands_ : Republic and Separatist forces have sent three agents to the planet Garqi, to retrieve the mysterious substance known as "the Waste." While Republic Intelligence Agent Karka Tr'ansom leads some stranded clones to an RV point, Ro and Wren are heading into the capital, unaware the Waste is no longer there. Meanwhile, Savage Opress rides into the jungle, on a mission to prove himself to his Master, while a Republic force under the command of General Pong Krell is fast approaching the planet Garqi.

* * *

 **Chapter Nineteen: On the Other Side**

 _"You're a Separatist?"_

 _"Well, of course, my dear. What were you expecting?"_

\- Padawan Ahsoka Tano and Separatist Senator Mina Bonteri

* * *

 _Later…._

"S'rry," someone mumbled behind her, just as Nan was shouldered out of line and to the side. She stumbled, juggling the little parcels that'd been pressed into her hands by the harried volunteers: a change of clothes that might fit her, a small bag with a quarter loaf of bread, two bottles of water and some sliced cheese and a complementary vanity bag from a nearby hotel that included a toothbrush and socks. All the bare necessities needed to tide her over until she could get herself sorted at one of the emergency shelters.

Strange to think, when the city council had given the order to build the bomb shelters, most of Pesktda's residents had reacted with equal measures of alarm and bemusement. Garqi had never been the center of the galaxy; neither towering nor sophisticated like Coruscant or Chandrila, so why worry about the war raging far away from their front doors. They were safe in their insignificance; surely those funds could've been used for something more pragmatic, like finally expanding the skylane traffic system. Turned out, the city council's paranoia had paid off; the shelters hadn't just saved lives during the Republic's attack, but now served as temporary homes for those like Nan, whose tenements had been turned to smoking slag. She'd lost everything, and in exchange could bed down in what was probably the safest hole in the ground on all of Garqi.

It was kinda funny. Maybe she should call Uncle Glover - always assuming she'd get through the overloaded comm network - and tell him he no longer had to worry about the sketchy neighborhood she'd settled in, or the wonky heating unit her cranky landlord kept forgetting to repair. No more heating unit to repair, let alone a neighborhood to avoid after dark and a landlord, cranky or otherwise, to argue with about the bills. She was finally sleeping somewhere even her backwater uncle would approve of. All her troubles, gone up in a firestorm, the ashes washed away in the rain.

Funny. She even sort of wanted to laugh.

Nan's knees suddenly gave way and she slid down the side of a building onto the pedwalk, too exhausted to care about the greasy puddles soaking into the bottoms of her pants. Her clothes were ruined, anyway; she'd not had a chance to change them since the battle, and she was greasy, reeking of sweat, blood, and something acrid that wasn't quite smoke. Little water wasn't going to hurt. It might even wash out some of the stains. Wasn't that what you were supposed to do with blood stains? Soak them before washing? Or was that wine stains?

She _was_ laughing; a high, shrieking sound that shocked her into clapping one hand over her mouth, then winced at the sting of the burns on her hands and face.

From her new vantage-point, the world was reduced to a stuttering sea of madly cycling legs. The curfew ended at six that morning, and people had been out and about ever since, mostly in a mad dash as they tried to stock up on food and water while trying to locate missing friends and family. There was an ugliness to that crowd, born not of anger, so much, as fear. They were all waiting for the next hammerblow and the flashes of dull beige from the patrolling battle droids _did_ and _didn't_ help. It was like watching the bomb shelters being built all over again: their presence was bewildering, frightening, but amplified to the magnitude of the same turret blasts that had torn through the city.

"Missy?"

Nan startled.

"Hey, missy." It was an older Rodian female, her green skin tinged with the grey of age. She was halfway bent-over, palms braced on her knees as she peered down at Nan. "You okay, missy?"

"I…" Nan abruptly realized she was still sitting on the pedwalk, blankly staring at her bandaged hand. She blinked, trying to shove the world back into focus. "Yeah. Think so." Blazes, she sounded downright soused, the way her tongue slurred the words together into mush.

"Well, you won't stay that way, sittin' in the wet. C'mon." The Rodian held out one hand for Nan to grab.

Nan stared at it, before hesitantly offering up her own bandaged hands. The Rodian clucked her tongue and her slender snout curled in an expression caught between concern and annoyance, before she grasped Nan by the elbows instead. "Up ya go."

Nan scrambled to keep her parcels, which had fallen into her lap during her abrupt sit-down, from dropping into the same puddles that had soaked through her pants. She'd never before felt more like a child's stuffed tooka toy in her life; despite her obvious age, the Rodian was _strong_.

She managed a meek, "Th-thanks," while arranging her parcels until she could press the bags to her chest with her wrists, instead of her throbbing hands.

The old Rodian woman shook her head. "You sure you're alright, missy? You look c'ncussed." She peered closely at Nan's face, blinking at the swath of bacta patches visible through the curtain of her brown hair.

"'m not." She just sounded like it. A nurse at the Municipal Hospital had checked her eyes and neck after taking care of the burns on her hands and face and the worst of the cuts. None of the doctors had had the time and she'd been kicked out of her medbed in the overcrowded hallway as soon as the nurse had been certain Nan wouldn't keel over dead while still on hospital grounds. But that was too much to explain and she was suddenly so terribly tired. "I'm just going-" _home_ , she'd almost said, but her apartment and everything in it was molten slag. "The shelters," she finished, as the Rodian kept frowning at her. "I'm going to the shelters. I'm fine."

She really wasn't. It was just starting to sink in, everything she'd lost. Not so much the apartment - which had been cheap and furnished second-hand and all she could afford - but her _books_ ; the little love notes Keyn had passed her during class; her collection of ugly porceplast amphibians her mother had started for her as a joke. All the little, insignificant things that had been _hers_. All gone.

"Well." The Rodian dragged the word out, clearly unconvinced, but just as clearly wanting to be on her way. "If you're sure-" She started to pull away and Nan, needing something to grounding, just a small touch to anchor herself, latched onto the woman's wrist with sudden, desperate strength, ignoring the sharp sting in her hands. Her parcels dropped onto the pedwalk, the bottles of water rolling out of their bag, and she didn't even care.

The Rodian jerked in surprise, large eyes flashing from Nan's grip on her wrist, to her face. Nan wondered if she looked as crazy as she felt in that moment, like she was going to float away and disappear into the overcast sky.

"Sorry. I'm sorry. I just need a moment, to catch my breath and thanks for being so nice," she babbled, not sure what she was trying to say, just aware that something _needed_ to be said and maybe it was an explanation of everything she'd lost, or how the stark blue of the turbo lasers kept appearing when she closed her eyes and how the Municipal Hospital had smelled more of blood than bacta. "I'm not…." Nan's eyes moved restlessly from the Rodian's face to the street and the surrounding building; she couldn't seem to catch on anything. "I'm not normally like this, at all, I'm just….I don't even know. I just feel like….like….."

The old Rodian's face softened, her large eyes liquid and a kindly blue. She put her other hand over where Nan still clung to her wrist, padding the bandages gently. "Maybe I should walk you to that shelter, missy."

The tears came then, hard and fast, and Nan barely managed a nod, too tired even to wipe at her burnt face. The salt stung as it ran beneath the bacta patches, but it felt a little good, too. Like a friendly arm slung over your shoulders, squeezing just a bit too hard, the good sometimes had to hurt to feel real. The Rodian helped her collect her dropped things, the effort a somewhat clumsy on both their parts, as Nan still refused to give up her grip on the older woman. People kept shooting them looks, but no one else stopped. They all kept their heads down, rain rolling off wool ponchos and plastered hair; the people, reduced to scurrying under the eyes of the battle droids. _Vert-mites_ , Nan thought randomly, _under the microscope_. Her face started to ache, fiercely.

The elderly Rodian carefully guided Nan down the pedwalk; apparently resigned to her captive wrist, she used her free hand to gently nudge Nan left or right, as the case required. Nan wasn't even sure if they were going the right way. She'd lived in Pesktda all her adult life, but for the first time in fifteen years, she was lost on streets she should have known like the back of her hand.

Her hometown had turned into an ardently realistic _Before_ and _After_ image. Broad avenues, their tapcafs and tenements and lines of decorative bimiza trees, ran parallel to rippled streamers of ferrocrete that looked like someone had carbonfrozen a river after dropping a pebble into it. The buildings along those avenues were nothing but hollowed out, broken teeth, waiting to be replaced with a shinier, artificial replica. Depending on the direction of the wind, the air could smell like fresh cream and mint from the untouched bimiza trees, or like burnt meat and caf grounds.

They'd gone almost a block, the scenery kind of swimming by Nan, when the ground started to shake.

"Oh." It was suddenly the elderly Rodian gripping onto Nan for stability, as the green of her skin paled further into grey. "You don't think-" She looked around in panic, the crest of spines atop her head quivering. Others on the pedwalk had also stopped, milling like a herd of bantha with the scent of anoobas in their nose, but uncertain of the direction of the wind.

Nan opened her mouth to respond to the unspoken fear in the woman's voice, then simply stared, suddenly not certain at all if she wasn't concussed after all. A grav-dozer came through the intersection, escorted on either side by three lanky battle droids. The Human operator was grim-faced behind the steering yoke as he cleared the street, pushing along a tangled mess of broken tan durasteel and dirty, white plastoid.

The small gathering of people along the pedwalk, including Nan and her Rodian companion, stood silent and transfixed as the grav-dozer pushed its mound of battle debris into an already trashed parking lot of a closed tapcaf. The 'dozer's operator fumbled with the controls; the machine backed up, lights flashing in the rain, beeping. The sound seemed almost as loud as the air raid sirens had been. The operator repeated the process twice more, backing up and pushing forward, contorting his load into a neat pile on the lot.

Nan's eyes skittered over a pair of hands in white gauntlets, a white plastoid boot twisted to the left, before landing on the wet ferrocrete. The grav-dozer was leaving behind it a viscous smear of reddish-brown; other rainbow colors shimmered on the surface beneath the 'dozer's blinking warning lights.

"Best not to linger, I suppose." The Rodian's voice jolted Nan out of her trance. "That is…..I suppose they could've warned people that they were doing…. _that_." She wasn't even looking at the grav-dozer, but down at the pedwalk.

She pushed Nan forwards again; like a windup toy being restarted, the rest of the crowd moved with them. Nan glanced back, to see the blinking lights and the silent battle droids watching over comrades and enemies alike being cleared off the streets. And she kept staring, even after the pair rounded a corner and the scene disappeared into the rain.

"Well, that was….that was thoroughly….unpleasant." The Rodian woman seemed as incapable to form words as she was to stop talking. "You'd think they'd….At the very least they could've _warned_ people…..decent, ordinary people, don't need to see….I mean, when they're doing _that_ ….Though I guess someone has to clean up, you know, _after_ ….Oh, what _now_?" she exclaimed as a clatter rang through the street.

Nan looked around. They'd left behind the more intact parts of the city. Around them the bizima trees were, if not downright charred, then singed naked of their leaves. The tenements had been boarded up, many sported char marks of blaster fire in wild constellations on their outer walls. Windows had been blown out, doors kicked down; this was where Republic clone soldiers and CIS battle droids had clashed, instead of hails of turret fire with the ground. The gav-dozer, or a similar cleaning crew, must have passed by here as well: the ferrocrete street sported the same large, reddish-brown and shimmering smears.

Who would've thought that blood and oil could produce such pretty colors?

The Rodian dragged Nan towards the source of the sound, to a corner where she peeked past the cracked wall of a boarded-up bakery. "What in blue milk blazes was tha-?" she started to say, then abruptly reared back from whatever had caught her eye, almost hitting Nan in the face with her spiked crest in the process. "There's _people_ coming out - _Missy_ , what are you _doin'_?" the Rodian hissed.

Nan didn't really know; that floating feeling was back, though, and the older woman had shaken off Nan's grip in her moment of surprise. Loosed of her tether, Nan drifted past the corner, right into a small cul-de-sac.

Two Humans and a….a _thing_ stared back at her.

They were out on the walkway of one of the demolished tenements, badly hidden by the burnt remains of a rutolu bush hedge. The man was half-bent, fingers clenched at the edge of a manhole cover that'd been rolled clear of the tenement's sewer entrance. He fixed Nan with dark brown eyes, and even through her haze, the back of her neck began prickling with unease. The man straightened slowly, raindrops rolling down his cheeks and through the short bristle of his black hair; his hand disappeared into the folds of his filthy jacket.

From somewhere came a squeak of alarm and Nan couldn't tell whether the sound had come from her or the old Rodian, when the other Human, a woman, brushed past the bare, blackened rutolu branches. Stepping between Nan and the man, the woman approached slowly, a wide, friendly smile on her lips and the strange little _thing_ curled up in her arms.

Just as filthy as the man, with her tan trousers and pink poncho streaked with a foul-smelling slime, this woman was a good head shorter than Nan, with pale blond and purple hair pulled into an unraveling braid. Nan tried to keep her attention divided between her and the man, but somehow, she couldn't tear herself away from the other woman's bright, teal eyes.

"Heyla, everything stellar 'kay?" Up close, the woman was more like….a girl, impossibly young beneath a dirty face. She jostled the little six-legged creature into the crook of one arm, ignoring the thing's whine of protest, then grabbed one of Nan's hands before she could react. "Wowzer, you're looking like I'm feeling: bonked in the noggin' four-too-many-times. Your friend commin' to join us, or is this gonna be a peepshow?"

The friendly chatter washed over Nan; she didn't really understand most of it, but it just….it felt _good_ , like that first burst of fresh-caf-smell after opening a new box. She didn't even mind how dirty the fingers squeezing hers were - Nan wasn't much cleaner herself, anyway.

They'd somehow maneuvered themselves back to the corner and the bewildered Rodian, where the older woman was graced with the same sort of dazzling smile that had Nan still seeing stars.

"Heyla-by-two, how're you?" the girl asked, and giggled at the silly rhyme. Stuck between her arm and her ribs, the little grey animal tilted its head, golden eyes rolling up towards the girl's face; it sort of looked like the creature was rolling its eyes in exasperation.

"I-I'm, ehm." The Rodian woman was clearly bewildered, eyes so wide, they threatened to fall out of her skull. But she still inched forward, as shy as a small animal being coaxed from its den by the promise of safety.

The girl never stopped smiling. Without relinquishing her hold on Nan, she crouched to let the little animal go, then simply reached for the Rodian's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. The animal sneezed, gave the trio of woman a searching look, then trotted off, back to the line of abandoned tenements.

A part of her - the primal, instinctual part of her brain - wanted to track its movements, follow it back, because there'd been something that way that had made her uneasy, shivery and confused. Nan wrenched her eyes back to the still smiling girl. Her eyes were such a bright color, especially amongst the layers of grime; her smile and her hands were warm and it was so nice, that warmth. It made Nan think of curling up on her sofa, wrapped in her favorite blanket with the latest holo-zine and a cup of caf, snug while the rain beat outside against the windows. She couldn't help lean into that warmth and dimly saw, from the corner of her eye, the Rodian woman doing the same.

"It's so nice to meet you." The girl's voice had changed subtly, still bright but softer now. Like one of the throw pillows that always choked up Nan's bed. "I'm so very pleased."

"Who're…" The voice was a rasp and it took Nan a moment to realize it was her own. But she tried again. "Who're….you? And wh-why…." Everything felt slow as cream: the words and her tongue and her mind, but it was nice. Like falling asleep to good dreams.

The Rodian took up Nan's thread, though. "Why're you here? I mean….I….Is this a-a drill?"

That laugh, warm and inviting. The girl's eyes sparked with mischief; her lips curled into a full-on grin. "A drill? Do I _look_ that military?"

They both shook their heads; the Rodian did it so hard, her crest of spikes shook. Nan even found herself smiling. It was kinda silly. And much funnier than all her troubles going down in a burst of flames.

The slender fingers around her hand gave another light squeeze.

"Me and mine were just passing by and found this whole manhole cover uncovered," the girl told them. She tilted her head back and a little to the side, an oddly bird-like gesture, that enabled her to meet both Nan's and the Rodian woman's eyes at the same time. "Mono unsafe, that. Someone could come stumbling along and fall and break their necks." The girl clucked her tongue, the sound so surprising, it startled a giggle out of the Rodian. The girl's grin widened in response. "Figured we'd be good citizens, help our fellow creature and heave to cover."

"That's very kind."

The girl flashed another, softer smile at the Rodian woman. "I know, right? We're so kind, we blow your mind." Another rhyme, another laugh and it was impossible not to share in the girl's obvious delight. "But it's getting late - or early," a quick glance at the sky from teal-colored eyes. "You ladies'd better get skedaddling to…?"

"The shelters." Nan swallowed; her throat no longer felt quite as parched. The ache in her chest, the one she got whenever she thought too hard about the last few days, was still there, but the accompanying ache in her head at faded almost completely in the last few minutes. Washed away by the light drizzle and the girl's smile. "We're going to the shelters."

The girl nodded solemnly. "That's a mono stellar idea. Shelters are so…. _sheltering_. You go on ahead; we'll finish up here."

That was….yeah, that was good. For the first time since the start of the conversation, Nan's gaze moved back towards the tenements and the man she'd glimpsed earlier. He was further down the street now, walking a tight circle in-between the cul-de-sac, the six-legged animal at his heels. Further away, he didn't seem threatening at all. Just a man walking in the rain. Her gaze dropped back to meet the girl's and a little smile bloomed over Nan's face. Besides, a nice girl like this wouldn't be in the company of anyone bad. Nan'd just...she'd hit her head and was still a little confused. Maybe she'd left the hospital too soon. Once at the shelter, she'd curl up and sleep. Or maybe talk to the Rodian woman a bit more; thank her for her kindness. Ask her name.

The girl was still talking and suddenly walking and Nan was listening and wasn't all at once, but compelled by the flow of words to follow the girl's lead. She felt like floating again, but it wasn't scary at all this time. Not like she was about to lose the last fingerhold on her own body, but more like she was in that in-between place of almost waking up, but still hanging onto the last good dream. By the time they were back on the street, the girl had twined Nan's fingers with the Rodian's green ones, her own slender ones atop. She gave them a final pat and smile.

"There ya go. All set. You take care of yourselves now, you hear?"

"We will," the Rodian said.

"And you…." Nan trailed off, blinked. Her face still hurt, but it was a distant ache. She didn't….she didn't feel _good_ , not like before, when the world was still whole and mundane and as familiar as a well-paged book, but she felt _better._ "You take care of that manhole. Wouldn't want anyone falling into the sewers." She tried out a smile and found it reflected on the girl's face. Even the Rodian woman's snout curled in amusement.

"Golly, no. Wouldn't want that. We'll take care of it, don't worry." Another pat on their joined hands. "No need to worry." And Nan felt a rush of warmth surge through her fingers and down her spine to her thawing toes.

The whole way to the shelter, Nan and the Rodian woman held hands.

It was good to know there were people still looking out for them.

* * *

They needed to find their target, this Doctor Oben Kattic. The needed to contact Fleet HQ, make sure they got the Intel on the Sep's beefing up war-wise. They _needed_ the fudging HoloNet, a week's worth of bubbly baths, some mint on ridiculously fluffy pillows piled high on an embarrassingly big bed and maybe throw in a massage from a representative of a particularly munchable species and Ro would be goody-stellar. She'd not even be all that pickish 'bout the pecking order, so long as somewhere down the line there'd be sweets and chocolate and a Sic-Six-layer cake.

At least the unwilling witnesses to their emergence from slime-below-central had been dealt with, without unnecessary bang-bang-kill. Speaking of….

Wren stepped up to stand at her shoulder, back from his tightly-wound recce. "We're clear." He cocked an eyebrow at her in challenge. "Right?"

No munchables, so her own fingers had to do as she pressed them against her temple and gave the growing ache a rub. She thought wistfully of her last time at the Lady Red and Xanthe's ten magical fingers. "Yeah. Right; clear as Bottom-feeder gumbo."

Wren frowned, but at the spot the two Garqi women had occupied. "We shouldn't have let them go."

"They weren't a threat, Cookie." _That_ got her the idiot-look again, Capital L.

"They're fekking Seps, _cheeka_."

" _Civilian_ Seps; _not_ battle droids."

"And if they scream loud enough, they'll sic all the karking clankers in the fek-forsaken city on us," he snapped back.

And they were back to squaring off, shoulders pulled taunt and chins down; feathers thoroughly ruffled and ready for the charge. Poorsa sat in-between, golden eyes moving from one to the other and gave a confused little whine from the back of its throat.

"I _handled_ it, Cookie," Ro squeezed out through clenched teeth. Force she was tired; suddenly so stinking tired of this day and this argument.

"'Handled' _how_?"

Maybe it was the tone, or the slight pinpricks of _doubt_ coming off of him, or…or…..You know what? Never mind. The air quotes. It was the great gooey thunderwaffling air quotes he'd thrown in there that finally set off Ro's fuse. She _exploded_ , right then and there and all over Wren's slightly stunned expression.

"You thick as butter, guts-griping, spacious in the dirt, three-inch _dwarfnut_! _Now_ you want me palavering 'bout the F- _fudge_!" She couldn't look at him right now; his _stoopa_ handsome face and the surprise in his angry eyes. With a hiss, Ro turned her back on Wren and dug her fingers into her hair and scalp in an attempt to hold on. She was just so _angry_ , so terribly and totally angry all of a sudden that it was hard not to wrap her hands around his neck and try and squeeze some decency out of him. She wasn't asking for much, for _fudging hella-tootles sake_! A. Touch of. Humanity. Cheese and sprinkles, was that so fudging hard?

Her braid was now completely unraveled. Ro's skin crawled with a million tiny pinpricks, as if her entire body had fallen asleep and blood flow was only now reasserting itself. Despite the damp, she felt dried out, stretched taut.

"You know what?" she finally managed.

The reply was wary and suspicious. "What?"

A deep breath, just enough air to give him another lashing… Ro let it all out on the exhale. "Never-me-mind." She cracked open an eye - when had she closed them? - and glared back at Wren's closed face over one shoulder. "I'm changing." She ducked around the trooper before Wren could say anything else. Poorsa squeaked and quickly got its tail out of her boot's way. " _You_ ," she shot back at Wren, "can guard my virtue. Shoot the peep-droids; that'll make you happy."

Purposefully ignoring any remark he might've made, Ro disappeared into the suggestion of a corner by the tenement building they'd come out of. No real protection against prying eyes - the wall separating the building's compound from its neighbors was barely at a twenty centimeter reset from the rest of the tenement. Ro could still overlook the entire street and anyone coming by would have an unobstructed view of her bare-stripping - not to mention the birds-eye-view from the upper floors of the adjoining buildings. To be cute, she didn't give a purring-tooka-cat's-tail. Let 'em get an open-eye full; she was tired, bubbling frustration and fudging prime holo-cinematic figuring.

Ro dumped her rucksack on the wet ferrocrete, nearly braining a busily sniffing Poorsa. The strill yipped, scrabbling backwards on its bum. It gave Ro a wide-eyed, bewildered, ' _What-did-I-do?_ '-look. Ro sighed, shoulders slumping as she crouched down to her pet. "Sorry, Fluff," she said, giving the strill's ears a conciliatory scratch. "Guess none of us is having a stellar day." Poorsa gave Ro's hand a quick, forgiving lick before trotting off to smell a different corner.

Pulling out her spare set of clothes, Ro carefully placed them atop her rucksack before shimmying out of her dirty boots, pants, and shirt. She kept the poncho on and her back turned towards the street, cringing at the feel of sodden, grimy bantha wool against her skin. 'Kay, so she wasn't totally ready to give the entire block a stripping of her tumble bunny underwear. But the clean clothes felt good, even if the damp was already seeping into them.

Once dressed, Ro leaned her forehead against the tenement's outer wall and breathed deeply of the rain-slicked plascrete.

She _wasn't_ dropping the bolo ball, alright. She just….It was all _so much_. Pesktda was a raw wound; the people its anti-bodies, swarming around the inflicted damage, _indignation_ and _fear_ and _confusion_ pouring into the Force in equal measures. And it was all clashing inside her head, like polar-charged particles, consequently turning the Force into an overcharged fusebox. Which left her the _dwarfnut_ with her fingers stuck in the sparking power socket.

So….yeah. Deep breath. In. Out.

She needed to concentrate on getting her mental house in order, making sure the walls that separated her from the Force were nice and thick, without seepage, and the door and windows opened no more than a crack. She needed to guard her own emotions from outside influence, not make herself totally blind.

The rain felt nice on her face. Like a long-overdue cry, it took some of the weight on her shoulders with it.

Ro blinked back to herself, eyelashes and cheeks and hair and just about everything else wet. But for a few soothing moments, all she could see was pretty, red plascrete and her nose full of the smell of fresh rain and the thick jungle. Then her brain registered the thick stench of oily smoke beneath, and something fleshy and charred she'd rather not think about and it was time to get moving again. She pushed away from the wall, giving her neck a quick twist to hear the vertebrae pop. Poorsa was already watching her, head high and tail swishing through the rain, happy and curious.

"You lucky ducky," she said and grinned, gesturing at the strill to follow her back. Poorsa whuffed, reluctant, but followed.

Wren had settled at the intersection where Ro had headed the two strangers off. Pushed up against a charred building's wall, shoulders bowed and head down, he looked like any other masc, just waiting out the rain. Except, Ro knew the hands tucked into the open sides of his jacket were warming the grips of his blasters and not his fingers. She stopped by his side, Poorsa plopping down at her feet, panting and tongue lolling, skeins of drool hitting the ferrocrete. Carefully adjusting the hood of her poncho, Ro whispered, "Your turn."

Without a word, Wren pushed off the wall, following Ro's example. And she wasn't even tempted to take a peek. Because, it wasn't like they hadn't seen each other in their skinnies. Camping out in the wild or the ship; either didn't leave many private spaces. But this wasn't their game, full of clever innuendo and imaginative heckling.

Ro hunkered down on her heels, pulling Poorsa's head against her thigh to give the strill a good scritching. The pup sighed and leaned its full weight against her, head getting heavier and heavier as Ro hit that perfect spot behind its ears. She kept an eye on their surroundings and the Force, throwing knives pressing against her skin as snugly as the strill.

Thing was, this was serious business and she'd trusted Wren to watch her bared back.

A hand fell onto her shoulder. Ro looked up; Wren jerked his head in the direction the two women had come from. "Let's go, _cheeka_."

She hoisted Poorsa into her arms, ignoring the pup's long-suffering protests. Wren slung an arm around her shoulders and Ro leaned into his warmth, stealing a few seconds of savoring his solidity, the reassuring crackle of _thereness_ that was Wren in the Force, while they made the perfect picture of a couple hurrying home.

Thing was, he might deny it, but he trusted her to watch his back, too. Even if he couldn't admit it. She'd just have to remind herself of that. A lot.


End file.
